Falling is Like This: Part II
by Dahlia
Summary: A continuation of FiLT:I 7 years later, after a lot of living, Rosaline returns to Hogwarts and Snape.
1. Prologue

**_Disclaimer: Everything recognisable as belonging to the Harry Potter world belongs to J.K. Rowling, and I am most certainly not making money off it. Rosaline Staunton and anything else original is mine. The title of this fic is from the Ani DiFranco song of the same name, which I assume she or her record co. owns. _**

**_Spoilers: Yes, most likely from all the books._**

**_A/N: This is the second part of Falling is Like This. It'd probably be a good idea to read that first. ^_~. So maybe I lied about not writing it anytime soon. I couldn't help it, the inspiration faerie has me black-listed and just refuses to leave me alone._**

*the Latin in this chapter is translated as "If you want peace, prepare for war."

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**_PROLOGUE_**

_Our view is on a young woman who stands over a bubbling cauldron, her face a mask of concentration as she skilfully adds three drops of a golden liquid to the potion she is brewing. It expels a puff of smoke and instantly cools, turning a soft shade of green. She exhales slowly in what appears to be relief and pushes a stray strand of unruly brown hair off her forehead before turning away._

_As she moves from the workbench on which the cauldron sits the rest of the darkened laboratory comes into view. It's cool and damp, and the high stone walls are windowless, a necessary measure when dealing with some of the more delicate ingredients essential for many potions. Large cupboards line the back wall, which she moves towards. As she opens one, we are given a glimpse of bottles and jars, filled with strangely coloured liquids and creatures, or parts of creatures. Multi-coloured liquids shimmer in their glass containers, reflecting the light of the torches ensconced in the opposite wall and the flickering candles which drip slowly onto their candelabras, placed strategically around the room._

_Selecting one of the aforementioned bottles, she turns and returns to her cauldron, passing the bookshelves which line two of the other dark walls, their shelves filled from floor to ceiling with volumes of all descriptions and sizes. Turning our attention back to the young woman, we watch her resume her work. This potion is complex, and requires a great deal of attention and care._

_Her youth is deceiving – one would not expect to find such precise skill in one so young. Yet precision and skill she has. Her countenance is intent as she measures and adds ingredients, her hands careful and controlled. She is in her element here, in this dark, cold room and cloistered silence. Her youth is deceptive in this as well – who could imagine that a woman such as this, little more than a girl, could choose this kind of life? But surely she has chosen this existence, and relishes it._

_Her potion is completed, and successful. The pride is palpable in her demeanour, her clear eyes reflecting pleasure as she quickly produces a number of empty bottles from another of the cupboards and begins to fill them with the solution. She finishes quickly, and proceeds to label the jars, her neat, slanted writing gracing the labels._

_As she places the jars neatly on a shelf within one of the few half-empty cabinets, we see her straight back waver for a moment. She finishes her task and turns back to her workbench. With a tired wave of her wand, the surface is left spotless, the cauldron clean and ready for tomorrow's work. She walks towards the wall opposite the cupboards, and opens the previously unnoticed door._

_The young woman steps out into surprisingly bright sunshine. She blinks and raises a hand to her eyes, waiting for them to adjust. The scene shimmers into view – a long hallway, lined along one side with large windows, all catching the late afternoon sun. She walks briskly towards the door at the end of the hallway and through it, out into the warm spring evening. The countryside is lush, green and utterly deserted. The house behind her is more of a manor – she has just come through a small door at what is obviously the rear of the stately hall._

_As she walks through a small garden and out onto the moor, we are given a better glimpse at this conundrum of a young woman. She can be no more than twenty-six or twenty-seven; her skin is smooth and her hair dark, her body still firm and slender. But her manner is not that of a carefree girl. She carries herself with dignity and restraint, and her eyes are old, much too old for her face. This one has seen the world, and knows how cruel it can be._

_She walks slowly down a well-trodden path, till she finally reaches her apparent destination – two burial mounds, sharing a single marker. The gravestone is not very old at all, quite new in fact. She gracefully sinks to the ground, and begins speaking in a soft voice, perhaps to the graves, perhaps to herself._

_As we take a closer look at the woman and the graves, the inscription on the marker becomes legible._

Ciara R. Staunton & Sean N. Staunton.

b. Oct. 17th, 1950 b. Dec 12th, 1947

d. May. 25, 1996

Beloved Parents of Rosaline.

"Qui desiderat pacem, praeparet bellum"

_The young woman is silent now, and the sun is almost set. She smiles faintly and rests a hand on each mound of earth, before speaking again._

"I'm going away for a while. I'm needed. I know you always wanted me to be an Auror Mum, if only so that I could help fight, should You-Know-Who ever return. Well, I will be fighting…but in my own way…"

_She is silent for a moment, her head bowed, before her she feels her voice, soft and quavering already, is strong enough to proceed._

"I think you'd be proud. I love you both."__

_The young woman stands, her eyes brilliant with unshed tears, and slowly begins walking back towards the manor._


	2. Reunion

**_Disclaimer:  (I have too much time on my hands)_**

I do not even dream to own

The rights to Harry Potter.

J.K Rowling runs that show –

Last I checked I was not her.

Not doing this for eminence,

Sure not getting paid.

Just want to see poor Severus

Finally get laid.

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**_CHAPTER 1: _****_REUNION_****__**

A light summer rain fell over the grounds of Hogwarts and on the weary traveller who was walking slowly up the driveway towards to front doors of the castle. A trunk floated lazily behind the cloaked individual. The castle was strangely silent – the summer holidays had begun, and though most of the staff had remained behind due to the growing darkness within the wizarding community, there was still an air of emptiness about the place. The traveller paused to look up at the imposing façade, softened by rain, before continuing through the front doors.

The hood was drawn back to reveal a young witch in her mid-twenties who proceeded to shake the rain off her cloak. Pulling her wand from her sleeve, she pointed it at her gently bobbing trunk and murmured a spell. The large chest sank to the floor with a muffled thud. The woman slipped her wand back into her sleeve and looked around the deserted Entrance Hall. Mildly confused, she walked briskly to the closed doors of the Great Hall and pulled one open.

The sight that greeted the woman both comforted and concerned her. To see the long empty tables with the House banners hanging over them only gave her a reminder of a possible future should the war drag on – a virtually empty school, educating not enough children to fill even one of the tables. Yet, the sight of the full staff table, whose occupants had now stopped talking to look up at her inquisitively, gave her hope. These men and women, who had been larger than life in her childhood, seemed to retain their same power. The young witch walked along the side of the Hall and up to the dais at the front. Dumbledore stood and smiled gently down at the traveller.

"Miss Staunton," he said, "we are very pleased to have you here."

Rosaline bowed her head and looked up at the Headmaster, her young face serious. "I am pleased to be here – I was quite flattered when I received your letter, and I'm more than willing to provide you with whatever assistance you require."

"Thank you, my dear," the old wizard said softly, "your strength and skill will be of inestimable value here. But for now, please, sit and have some lunch. You have had a long trip."

Rosaline smiled gratefully and slide into an empty chair between a woman she did not know and the one remaining empty seat, at the end of the table. The puzzled looks from most of the professors simply confirmed her suspicion that Dumbledore had not informed the staff of the reason for her presence at Hogwarts. Which meant that _he didn't know either. He wouldn't be pleased. Rosaline sighed. She nibbled at her food, eating very little – a habit she had long since lost the will to break – and instead spent most of her time glancing over to the seat beside her, half-afraid and half-hopeful that he'd suddenly appear there._

The staff members began to slowly leave the table, having finished their meals, till only Rosaline, Dumbledore and McGonagall remained; the latter two were engaged in deep conversation.

Not wanting to disturb her old professors, the young woman silently stood and slipped from the room. Her trunk was sitting where she had left it – apparently the house elves had no idea where it was meant to be either. As she stood looking at it, deep in thought, McGonagall hurried out of the Great Hall.

"There you are child, I was wondering where you were heading off to, seeing as we have yet to show you to your quarters," the old witch said with a chuckle.

Rosaline smiled and gestured to her waiting trunk. "I was about to go hunt down some house elves had you not arrived when you did, Professor."

The older woman clucked her tongue and smiled with uncharacteristic warmth. "Come now Rosaline, there's certainly no need for formality. Though you were a student in my house for 7 years, you're certainly not anymore. Please, call me Minerva."

Rosaline flushed with pleasure and flashed McGonagall the most genuine smile she had given since she arrived. Before she could respond, the older woman had levitated her trunk and was guiding it down the hallway. Rosaline jogged to catch up and listened as McGonagall continued speaking.

"Now then, we have quarters arranged for you, as well as a small laboratory prepared to your specifications. I was quite certain you'd not want to be in the dungeons, so we've put you in the South Tower. Not as high as the Astronomy Tower, but you'll have a lovely view of the lake nonetheless."

The two women spoke all the way to Rosaline's new chambers, covering almost every subject except the one Rosaline had expected and dreaded. The stairs of the tower conquered, McGonagall stopped before a large, imposing door, in the center of which was the sculpted head of a dragon. It blinked at the women lazily as the older witch slowly lowered Rosaline's trunk to the floor. She gave the dragon's snout a sharp tap with her now free wand, and the door swung open.

McGonagall smiled at Rosaline, but her eyes showed sadness.

"Take as much time as you need to settle in, meals are a very informal affair over the summer – usually there're no more than three or four of us here at a time." A look of pain crossed her face, but McGonagall quickly covered it and continued, her voice lower now. "I also want to express my condolences, dear…about your parents…"

Rosaline shook her head and put up a hand to silence the other woman. "It's alright Prof…Minerva. I'll see you at dinner tonight. I really just want to have a nice long bath and lie down for a while."

McGonagall nodded slowly and tried to smile. "Alright," she said, and turned to go, only to pause again.

"It's very good to see you again, Rosaline," she said softly, then disappeared down the stairs.

Rosaline watched her go, then levitated her trunk and guided it through the door which closed silently behind her.

~*~

Rosaline sat in her bedroom in front of the vanity, brushing out her long hair.

"You look tired, dear," the mirror chirped, "perhaps a little lie down before supper?"

Rosaline ignored the chatter and put down her brush. She stood up and looked at the large canopy bed for a moment, clearly weighing up her possibilities. Shaking her head, she turned from the bed and headed down the spiral staircase into her small library instead.

The afternoon sun streamed through the bay windows, resting on one of the two comfortable armchairs and a small reading table. Ignoring the bookcases full of volumes, Rosaline headed into the parlour which constituted the other half of this floor of the tower. She went briskly through the door of her chambers and down the winding stairway which led to the rest of the castle.

Striding purposefully through the halls of Hogwarts, Rosaline continued her descent until she reached the dungeons. They were chill, even in the warmth of early June. She idly raised her arm and trailed her fingertips along the damp stones of the walls, the same way a young girl would. Slowly making her way towards the Potions classroom, Rosaline wondered if it has changed in the past 7 years. Somehow, she doubted it.

Despite her dallying, the young woman eventually found herself standing before that same, imposing door. Rosaline glared at it definitely, refusing to be intimidated.

_'I'm 24 years old,' she told herself,__ 'I can handle this man, the same way I can handle any other misfortune the fates throw my way. I've come this far, it'd be foolish to turn back.'_

There was nothing to do but proceed, so Rosaline raised her hand and rapped loudly on the door.

~*~

Snape looked up at the door in irritation. His colleagues should know better than to disturb him while he was working. He turned his attention back to the relatively complex potion he was currently brewing, ignoring whoever might be knocking. They could be eaten by a rampaging manticore for all he cared.

Forgetting the interruption, Snape continued to add ingredients meticulously. He almost dropped the small bottle of beetle wings when the pounding on his door returned, twice as hard. With a snarl, he leapt to his feet and strode angrily to the door.

Flinging it open, fully prepared to inflict a scathing insult on whomever it was who had dared disturb him, Snape almost toppled backwards in surprise.

Rosaline stood, stationary, her eyes on him. Analytical, even when surprised, Snape noticed that her eyes were harder and colder than they had been years ago, when she was still a girl. She was also a little slimmer and a little paler than he remembered, but most noticeable was the bitterness in her face, the cynicism of one who has seen the worst the world has to offer.

_'Of course she's bitter you fool,' his inner voice hissed, __'her parents were both tortured and murdered by Death Eaters last year.'_

Snape gathered his composure about him like a fog and looked down his long nose at Rosaline. 

"What are you doing here?" he purred dangerously. Without responding, the woman swept past him and into the classroom. Snape stood, dumbfounded, before his anger kicked in.

He spun and advanced on Rosaline, who foolishly had her back to him. She neither turned nor flinched as drew up against her, invading her personal space.

"Trying your hand at stoicism, Miss Staunton?" he breathed into her ear, slightly stooped so as to be at the right level to do so, "it does not suit you."

Rosaline spun suddenly, and Snape found himself nose to nose with the young woman, giving him a far better chance to study her eyes. The vitality, the spark was still there, but it was dulled, hidden behind bitterness and scorn for the world. He did not shy away from this change as most people would. Snape chose simply to probe, curious to see how deep the diamond-hardness went.

Rosaline broke first and allowed her gaze to slide to the floor submissively, but she did not move.

"Were you there?" she whispered, so softly Snape's already impressive hearing was hard-pressed to catch the question. "Were you a part of it?"

He shook his head and murmured a denial, his black eyes still staring at her intently. She shivered, and for a moment, she looked young and scared – very much like the girl he had taught a harsh lesson to on the lawn over seven years ago. This illusion disappeared in an instant as Rosaline dropped the impassive mask back over her features. She raised her eyes back to his and they were chips of green ice again.

"But you knew. You knew, and you didn't tell them. Didn't warn them about the trap, did you?" Rosaline's voice slowly rose in volume as she spoke, from a whisper to a pseudo-yell. She broke off and choked back a moan and pressed her hand tightly against her mouth to stifle the sobs that threatened to rise out of her throat.

Snape gently placed his hands on her shoulders, mildly surprised when she did not shrug them off violently.

"Rosaline," he murmured, "I did not know. If I had…"

With a cry, she pushed away from the tall man violently and spun to catch herself against a worktable. The two figures stood motionless and silent, Rosaline's quivering shoulders and back the only indication she was in any form of pain.

Long minutes passed before she straightened herself and turned. Her face was pale and drawn but not tear-stained, nor did her eyes show any indication of crying. Snape watched Rosaline carefully, unsure of how to treat this new incarnation of the girl whose vitality and bravery he once found captivating. This woman bore a striking resemblance to that girl, but without the eagerness, the animation and the _lightness which had been indispensable parts of the latter._

Without warning, Rosaline strode past the Potions Master and out of his classroom. 

Severus Snape did not move for a long time.

~*~

A handful of long June days passed, and Rosaline began to settle into life at Hogwarts. She missed her family manor in Ireland, and the small comfort she gained from knowing that though her parents were dead, she could visit their graves whenever she chose.

Dumbledore had still not made the staff of Hogwarts privy to the reasons for her presence there, which suited Rosaline. She had no misconceptions of Snape's reaction when he learned that she was to be working with him – and not solely in a teaching capacity.

She was to be a secret weapon of sorts. One to be kept from both the Ministry and Voldemort's forces. Over the 7 years since she had left Hogwarts, she had studied fiercely, her passion for her chosen field of work growing exponentially as the months stretched to years. She immersed herself in her study of potions, and became a Potions Master within a year. Two years later, still only 21, she became a senior member of the R&D division of the Ministry. She was happy with her life, and felt no rush to "settle down" as her mother called it. Even as rumours of Voldemort's existence began to circulate, Rosaline did not once think her parents would come to any harm. Both seasoned and talented Aurors, the young woman still half believed her mother and father to be infallible. In the arrogance of youth, she assumed there would be plenty of time to marry and give her mother grandchildren to fuss over.

Her world had been shattered when, in May of 1996, only 18 days after her 23rd birthday, her home had been invaded by a squad of Death Eaters. Rosaline had left shortly after the 7th, citing the need to get back to work. Her father had understood with his characteristic patience, while her mother had, as usual, fussed.

She could still remember them clearly, standing side by side at the front door of the manor just before she Apparated to Dublin to catch her Portkey, her father's arm wrapped protectively around her mother's shoulders.

That had been the last time she'd seen them. She'd sent the perfunctory owl once she'd arrived at her flat in Diagon Alley, just to tell them she was safe, how the trip was, and so forth. After that, her work had taken precedence. When she was summoned from her laboratory and told what had happened by a very sad looking senior Auror, Rosaline did not believe her. She returned to her laboratory and continued working till she was forcibly removed from her workbench and sent back to her flat.

It took her days to finally accept what had happened. After that…darkness. Those few months were a blur of black mourning robes, legal issues to slog through, matters to close, and bottles of Ogden's Old Firewhiskey. Rosaline lost herself, lost the girl she was, and once she managed to drag herself out from the pit of despair and alcohol she had fallen into, she was irreversibly changed.

Strangely, in this dark time she found her thoughts drifting to the curmudgeonly Potions Master of Hogwarts. That last night with him on the lawn, what he had told her then, played through her mind with alarming clarity – Rosaline thought she had long since forgotten his words.

_"Though you are no longer technically a child, you are still innocent and naïve. You have much to learn of the world, Miss Staunton. Perhaps once you have existed in it as an adult, you will understand the consequences of this interlude, and understand…"_

But Rosaline didn't understand. She became obsessed with discovering what he had meant. It gave her an outlet, something to concentrate her energies on other than grief. She continued her work for the Ministry, requesting the opportunity to work in the private lab in her family home. Her appeal was granted, and Rosaline found herself home again, but it, like it's now sole inhabitant, was changed.

Without her parents, the manor seemed an empty shell, much the same way Rosaline viewed herself. She eventually gave up on her attempts to decipher Snape's puzzling words, but was left painfully aware that what she once was in his eyes – the innocent and naïve child – existed no longer. Though she thought of him less, she found that every so often she would have strange dreams, images of black silk against pale skin haunting her sleep. Oddly enough, these dreams came to her whenever she had been working with rosemary or lemon balm.

A slow year passed for Rosaline, and she somehow managed to appear whole again, despite her 'maturing'. There was a hardness to her now, a chill in her demeanour which had never existed before. She pulled away from the few remaining friends she had and immersed herself completely in her work. A lonely existence stretched ahead of her, with little hope.

Then, one warm May afternoon, shortly after her uncelebrated 24th birthday, an owl arrived from Hogwarts. The letter from Dumbledore had an underlying urgency. Rosaline responded immediately and was on her way to the school as June began.

_'And here I am,' she thought, staring out the window of her library. She was to pose as Snape's teaching assistant, simply another one of Dumbledore's collection of misfits and broken toys. Her real job still involved working with Snape, but in a more practical sense._

They had both been creating experimental potions – ones to aid Aurors in the capture or destruction of Death Eaters, to counter the effects of the Three Unforgivable Curses, and a medley of healing draughts.

But now, thanks to information collected by Snape, they were to combine their skills and attempt to create a potion which would specifically weaken Voldemort. Killing him was too much to hope for at this stage – the Order of the Phoenix was content to set their sights lower.

And through what was most likely her salvation from a cloistered, cold life of research – what she had dreaded most as a girl – Rosaline was finally able to understand Snape's mystifying words on that night 7 years ago. He was a spy, and though when she had been thrown into his life, when Voldemort was still believed to be vanquished, Snape had never given up his self-inflicted sentry duty.

She understood now.

Rosaline sighed and ran a hand through her still-unruly dark hair.


	3. Power Struggle

**_Disclaimer: (I'm going to have to make little rhymes now all the time, aren't I? ^_^)_**

Jo Rowling owns Harry Potter,

Snape and Hogwarts too.

I only want to borrow them;

So for god's sake, don't, sue.

Not making money off this

Perversion of my head.

I only want to mess with Snape,

And get Ros in his bed.

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**_CHAPTER 2: POWER STRUGGLE_**

Rosaline walked quickly through the halls of Hogwarts, towards Dumbledore's office. Mid-June was already upon them, and the old wizard had told Rosaline that they could no longer delay telling Snape the real reason for her presence at the school. The young witch was apprehensive, but not truly concerned. She believed Snape would snarl and sulk for a while, but he would accept her assistance after a time.

She reached the stone gargoyle, and said the password – Liquorice All-Sorts. The statue moved to one side and she walked through the door and onto the moving staircase. As she rose up the tower, Rosaline mentally prepared herself. Though she would never let him know, seeing Snape again had left her slightly unbalanced. That lust she had believed extinguished years ago returned the moment she saw him. Simply by staring at her with those indecipherable black eyes, Snape created a gaping hole in the emotional walls she had built since her parents' death. 

After clawing her way through the hellish months of last summer, Rosaline had not cried. She refused to live her life with vision blurred by tears or liquor, and though she still occasionally got roaring drunk, she refused to ever again sob the way she had during that dark time.

But when she asked Snape, asked if he had been there, had known, she almost broke. It was force of will alone that allowed her to hold back the tears. And then, she had left. She couldn't face him, couldn't let him see that for all her bitterness, for all her stoicism, she was still a girl in regards to him. He could make her weak with a look, and that could not continue. Not if they were to work together.

Drawing herself out of her thoughts as she reached the top of the stairway, Rosaline stepped into Dumbledore's office. Ignoring the many whirring and clinking instruments spread around the circular room, Rosaline sat down in a chair in front of the Headmaster's desk. Fawkes squawked weakly from behind the door – he was apparently getting ready to immolate.

Rosaline looked up at the portraits of the former headmasters, most of whom snoozed in their frames. As she sat quietly, she heard low voices speaking behind a door off to her right. All she could discern was that they were male, and one, which was slightly louder, sounded irate. Rosaline sighed – Dumbledore must be telling Snape of her real reason for being at Hogwarts. 

The door burst open suddenly and Snape swooped through it, his face twisted with anger. He paused as he saw Rosaline, and then scowled more fiercely. Bearing down on her like a tidal wave, he bent over her chair, his face uncomfortably close to hers.

"I do _not need assistance from anyone in my work," he hissed, "and I certainly will not suffer to play nanny to some foolish child with delusions of grandeur."_

Rosaline stood, forcing the tall man to straighten and step back. Matching his glare, she stepped closer to him, both invading his personal space and proving she was not afraid of him at once.

"You arrogant bastard. I'm more than certain you know I am among the best Potions' Masters within Britain, despite my age. And while I may be young, I am certainly no longer a child. I am here at the Headmaster's request, due to his sound belief that working together we will be able to accomplish more than we would on our own. And I will not be working _for you as you seem to believe. I will be working __with you."_

Rosaline had spoken softly, but the fury in her eyes betrayed her expressionless voice and countenance. Snape treated the slender young woman to the icy glare that made most of his students run off in tears. She met it, her eyes equally cold.

Dumbledore stepped forward from his previously unnoticed position and rested a hand on both Snape's and Rosaline's shoulders.

"Severus, Rosaline, please. This is a dark time, in which we must work together if we are to defeat Voldemort."

Snape looked at the old wizard's drawn face and growled, but Rosaline saw that he would accept Dumbledore's decision. Though the anger he radiated was palpable, Snape would see reason. He merely needed time to lick his wounded ego.

The Potion's professor shrugged off the Headmaster's hand and stalked out of the office. Dumbledore looked after him sadly before turning to Rosaline.

"I am sorry you had to see that, but it was for the best. He will respect you more for your response to his anger. Please," he said softly, gesturing to the chair Rosaline had recently vacated, "sit down."

Rosaline complied and the Headmaster sat in the chair behind his desk. He smiled warmly at the young woman.

"It is good to see you again Rosaline. I knew we could expect a great deal from you – the talent and intelligence you displayed while a student assured me of that. But despite my pleasure at having you here, I regret that the circumstances of your return are so unpleasant." Dumbledore's normally bright eyes dimmed with sadness. "These are dark times, and we are with little hope for the future. I fear that this coming school year will be the worst yet."

Rosaline covered her dismay at hearing Dumbledore so forlorn – if he could not assure her of a victory, then no one could. It was at that moment that the young witch realised that she and Snape were among the best hopes the forces of light had. She suppressed a shudder, and wondered how she would ever be able to bear such a horrible burden.

Dumbledore smiled again, but without as much conviction. "I would suggest you let Severus be for a week or so. He will need time to adjust to the idea of working with another person. Though he might not relish it, he is accustomed to his solitary life."

Rosaline nodded. "I'll continue with my own work for a time, in my laboratory." She stood, a move that Dumbledore mimicked, and then extended her hand, which the Headmaster shook. She smiled. "It is good to be back, sir, despite the circumstances."

The old wizard chuckled, some of the sparkle returning to his blue eyes. "Please, you may call me Albus."

Rosaline smiled again and headed out of the room.

~*~

A week passed quickly, and Rosaline gave Snape a wide berth. He ignored her totally, not even looking in her direction on the rare occasions he came to the Great Hall for meals or when they passed each other in a corridor. 

They finally spoke on one warm, beautiful evening in late June. Rosaline had been tempted out of the castle after dinner by the sunset and the gentle breezes which danced across the grounds. She sat on the wide steps leading up to the main door of the castle, watching the sun disappear slowly over the rolling highlands in a blaze of unearthly beauty. The multi-coloured clouds spread their pink and lavender fingers across the sky, reaching out to defy the gathering darkness. The analogy was not lost on Rosaline, and the hopelessness she had felt more and more frequently since her parents' death threatened to choke her.

A gentle rustle of cloth behind her had her on her feet in an instant. Snape chuckled nastily and glided down the steps to stand beside her. He critically surveyed to remnants of the sunset then turned his gaze to the young woman at his side.

Neither spoke for a while, content with simply studying the other. There were more scowl lines in Snape's face, Rosaline noted, and his hair looked greasier than ever. But his eyes were the same. Guarded, cold and severe, hiding who knew what underneath. Severe. It was a word that described him perfectly – his parents had chosen his name well. Rosaline found herself wondering about Snape's parents, curious about his history, his life, for the first time.

"You will accompany me to my workroom tomorrow after breakfast," Snape murmured suddenly, "we might as well begin combining out efforts now. Delaying will only make it that much more unpleasant when we begin. I expect perfection Miss Staunton, and if you disappoint me, you will find that this little experiment of Albus' will become very arduous for you."

Before Rosaline could protest, he had disappeared back into the castle.

~*~

The new day dawned early, waking Rosaline with its coming. She had slept fitfully, haunted by her dreams. They were confused and muddled now that they had been thrust into the light of morning, but the image of black on white remained with her.

"I hate that dream," she mumbled hoarsely, her voice thick with sleep. She dragged herself from her very comfortable bed and stumbled to the bathroom. Turning on one of the dozen taps which projected into her large bathtub, Rosaline stripped and turned to the mirror, which clucked its fictitious tongue.

"You really should eat more, dear," it chided, "I can count your ribs!" 

The young witch looked at her body, and couldn't help but agree with the statement. She had become unhealthily skinny over the past year, it was true, but the few weeks she had spent at Hogwarts had done her some good. The weight gain was slight, but there nonetheless. She accredited this to the fact that she had been taking exercise more regularly – walks through the grounds brought back pleasant memories, and Rosaline indulged in them daily.

The tub almost full, the young woman turned from the mirror and shut the tap off. The scent of lilac rose off the bubble-filled bathtub, making Rosaline smile. She slowly slid into the hot water, relaxing as its warmth enclosed her body.

She took her time with her bath, knowing she had a few hours before Snape would arrive at breakfast. _'Besides,' she had thought with a trace of her old mischievousness surfacing, __'I'd rather make him wait a little while. If only to show him that I'm no longer his student, and he has no power over me.'_

Rosaline sat at her vanity a few hours later, brushing out her long hair. It was nearly to her waist now, and twice as unruly. She put the brush down and carefully plaited her hair into a French braid. Struck with a sudden impulse, Rosaline dusted her face with foundation powder and applied a light coating of gloss to her lips. As she regarded herself gravely in the mirror, she scowled with realisation.

_'He wouldn't notice if I cut most of my hair off and dyed what remained green,' she thought sourly before getting up and heading out of her chambers. She left the makeup on anyways._

~*~

Rosaline arrived at the Great Hall much earlier than usual, her craving for caffeine winning out in the end. She found Snape already there on his own. He glared over his coffee as she calmly walked up to the table and sat across from him.

The regular set up of the Hall had long since been altered – it was pointless when there were no students. A large, round table in the centre of the room had replaced the usual ones, and though the Hall seemed very empty, eating was a more pleasant occasion.

Rosaline poured herself a cup of tea and buttered a slice of toast languidly, ignoring Snape's glare. Looking out of a window, she slowly ate her breakfast, feeling satisfied in the knowledge that she was probably bothering the hell out of the man across from her. She heard a disgruntled snort as she poured another cup of tea, and looked up at Snape in mock surprise.

"Oh, I'm sorry, Professor. Am I taking too long?" Rosaline's face retained the same look of mild concern, and her eyes were still hard, but there was a glint of amusement under the surface. 

Snape smirked. "Take as much time as you like, Miss Staunton. I'm simply wondering if you work as efficiently as you dine."

Much to his surprise, Rosaline simply chuckled and sipped her tea quickly. Putting down the empty cup a few minutes later, Rosaline stood and looked expectantly at Snape.

"Well? Are you ready or not?"

That faint suggestion amusement was still visible in her eyes. Snape drained his mug of coffee and stood. He shot Rosaline a nasty look before swooping out of the Hall. The young woman quietly followed him without nearly as much showiness.


	4. Unwelcome

**_Disclaimer:_**** It all belongs to Ms. Rowling, 'cept for Rosaline and any other original tidbits. No rhyme this time…Dahlia…too…tired…*passes out***

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**_CHAPTER 3: UNWELCOME_**

Rosaline followed Snape down the stairs and into the dungeons. The tall man stalked quickly, and Rosaline had to trot to keep up with his long strides. He swooped into the potions' classroom ahead of her by a few moments, and when she entered Rosaline found him already placing bottles and vials on one of the workbenches where a large cauldron sat, a small fire burning merrily beneath it. The young woman approached the table, her apprehension masked expertly. Snape glanced at her with palpable distaste as he placed a final bottle beside the cauldron.

"I feel I must make it absolutely clear that in no way am I pleased about this arrangement, though I accept the Headmaster's decision. I will work with you, Miss Staunton, if only because I have no other alternative. Do not expect me to enjoy it. As I told you yesterday, I have very high expectations. If you, for one instant, give me reason to believe you do not meet my standards, I will personally throw you out of Hogwarts. Do I make myself clear?"

Snape finished his softly spoke tirade and watched Rosaline carefully. She stared back impassively.

"Crystal."

Snape glowered and pushed a cutting board, a knife, and a vial of dried mandrake leaves across the workbench to her.

"Chop six of those up, very finely and evenly," he hissed, and began preparing some sort of root himself. Rosaline did not move, but simply continued watching the tall man as he ground the ingredients gracefully with a mortar and pestle. After a few almost silent moments, Snape became aware of her inaction and looked up, one eyebrow arched.

"Is there a problem, Miss Staunton?" he asked coldly.

Rosaline pushed her anger down into her stomach, conscious of the fact that this was Snape's territory, and she should tread lightly. "I would like to know what it is we are brewing, Professor," she said softly.

Snape stared at Rosaline for a few pregnant moments while he debated on how to respond. Snapping at her as he would a student would accomplish nothing. Yes, he was angry that Dumbledore had taken the liberty of bringing the girl here for this purpose without his knowledge, let alone his consent. Yes, despite her new-found bitterness and coldness, she was still an impertinent brat who had managed to irritate him already this morning. But she was here, and she was clearly trying to be polite. He growled to himself.

"Based on information I've acquired both from research and my own experience, the Dark Lord seems to have a weakness. Are you aware of the process in which he was reborn?"

Rosaline nodded. She had spoken with Dumbledore a number of times since she had arrived. The Headmaster had told her the entire story of Voldemort's return, and answered all her questions as best he could.

"The magic through which he was reborn was based upon three key ingredients – a bone of the father, the flesh of a servant and blood of an enemy. The first and last seem to be irrefutable. But the second…I'm not entirely sure it's met the exact requirements."

Rosaline half nodded, not entirely sure she understood. A flicker of confusion must have been visible on her face – Snape sighed irritably. 

"It is possible that if one of the components of the spell is faulty, even slightly inaccurate, that we have an advantage," he clarified with exasperation, "This is powerful magic, and it is exacting and specific. Even one small inaccuracy could give us an advantage. The research I've been undertaking has been centered around this possibility, as well as searching for the actual origin of this brand of magic."

"So I would be correct in assuming that this potion monopolizes upon the potential weakness." Rosaline added. Snape looked at her with something vaguely familiar to satisfaction and nodded.

"Exactly, Miss Staunton. Now, if you would be so kind as to prepare the mandrake, I will attempt to explain the intricacies of this potion," he sneered, having reverted back to his usual, nasty self. Rosaline masked her anger and bit back a nasty retort, then began meticulously preparing the mandrake leaves – she was too well trained a Potions Master to allow her emotions to interfere with her work.

They worked diligently, while Snape filled Rosaline in on the workings and basis of the potion.

~*~

The long summer days passed slowly, the sun eager to parade across the sky for as long as possible, only sinking slowly over the horizon when the hour grew late and the moon staked her claim upon the firmament by hanging high over her arrogant counterpart. Rosaline and Snape found themselves spending long hours in cloistered research and preparation – it was impossible to test their creations, so they had to content themselves with instinct and Snape's small amount of information regarding Voldemort. Many quiet days would be spent in the school library, the two of them seated at one of the long tables, books piled haphazardly around them until the stretching sun of early evening slid through the windows and enveloped the pair in warm golden light.

It was one of these such evenings when Rosaline, engrossed in a book about ancient magic and its development, suddenly became aware that she was being watched. Slowly, carefully, she raised her head and met Snape's dark gaze. As she expected, he did not look away or appear embarrassed at being caught staring. He simply watched her impassively, his face the  usual mask.

_'He really is an enigma of a man,' Rosaline thought as she tried not to lose herself in Snape's infinite eyes. She studied him now, quietly, in the same manner he studied her. __'Those eyes…I can't imagine how I ever could have forgotten them. They can be terrifying in their intensity, but strangely compelling as well…they make me feel as though I were frozen in place.'_

A long moment passed, before Snape cleared his throat, causing Rosaline to snap back to reality.

"I think it has been a long day, Miss Staunton. Perhaps a break?" His usual sneer seemed to be misplaced, and Rosaline found herself momentarily caught off guard.

"Oh, ah, yes Professor." Rosaline pushed herself back from the table and looked down at the teetering towers of volumes uncertainly. "Should we…?" she trailed off.

"I'm sure Madame Pince will understand if we leave these here for the night," Snape murmured smoothly. Rosaline nodded and stretched, cracking her back as she did so.

"Well…I shall see you tomorrow, Professor," she said, and before he had a chance to respond, the young witch had fled the library.

~*~

Rosaline sat up in bed and sighed. It was certainly not the first night sleep had eluded her, and she was accustomed to the frustration and feeling of guilt because she was not conserving her energy for the long days of research and testing. She swung her legs around and sat quietly on the edge of the bed for a long moment, considering her options. A trip to the kitchens for a cup of tea? Curling up in one of the comfortable armchairs in her small library and losing herself in one of her many books? No. She wasn't in the mood for either. Restlessness had been growing within her over the past days, and she needed something to let it out.

With a sigh, the young witch pulled a light silver robe over her head, shoved her wand in one pocket and headed down the circular staircase, through her library and parlour, then out into the hall. She gave the half asleep dragon a sharp tap on the nose with her wand and murmured the charm. It glared at her balefully, but locked the door of her rooms.

Rosaline tripped lightly down the stairs of the tower and made her way silently towards one of the many doors out of Hogwarts. She slipped through a small egress near the staff room on the first floor and padded out onto the rolling lawns which made up most of Hogwarts' grounds.

She ambled through the dew-soaked grass; her bare feet were drenched within seconds. The moon was full, but already riding low in the sky – she would set soon, leaving the bountiful stars in command of the heavens. But for now, there was ample light for Rosaline's navigation purposes. She walked along the walls of the castle, south, towards the lake. The still, silent water glittered in the moonlight, tempting her closer.

The smooth lawns spread out before her as she left the shadow of Hogwarts and glided across the ground. It was only as she reached the lake that she realised that the dew made sitting down a rather uncomfortable option. Rosaline walked around the edges of the lake instead, hoping that this exercise would wear her out sufficiently to allow her to snatch at least a few hours of sleep.

As she walked, she found her thoughts inevitably wandered back to Snape. He ran so hot and cold. Rosaline half wondered if that was part of his ploy to throw her off. She smiled faintly and paused, looking out across the water. Whatever else could be said of Severus Snape, he was definitely not a man easily understood. With a sigh, Rosaline turned away from the lake and headed back towards the castle.

She stopped dead in her tracks when she saw a dark figure lurching towards the main doors of the castle. Drawing her wand, she pointed it at the shadow.

"Who are you?" she called, loudly. The figure froze and seemed to shudder, pulling away from her, speeding up slightly. Rosaline threw caution to the wind and ran towards her apparent adversary. "Stop, right now!"

The figure tried to run and stumbled, falling forward. She slowed as she came closer to the recumbent figure and heard a groan. Cautiously, she approached. A long-fingered hand lay splayed on the grass, emerging from the black cloak. Rosaline gasped.

"Severus?"

She knelt down beside the crumpled man and gently pulled the cloak back. He was lying on his stomach, apparently delirious, and what was visible of his face was covered by his hair, which Rosaline carefully brushed back. He didn't appear to have any physical wounds – his limbs looked sound, and there was no blood. Yet, his entire body seemed to be in agony, the lightest of touches caused him to instinctively cringe back. Rosaline's lips thinned to a flat line as the answer came to her suddenly. The Cruciatus Curse. Snape had been summoned, and Voldemort had tortured him.

Rosaline conjured a stretcher and whispered softly to Snape as she prepared to levitate him onto the stretcher.

"I'm going to take you to the Infirmary, Severus, don't worry, you'll be alright," she soothed. Before she could cast the spell, Snape shot out a hand and grabbed her wrist.

"No," he croaked, "no infirmary. All I need is sleep." He tightened his grip on her wrist, apparently trying to pull himself up. Torn between what to do, Rosaline made no move to either help or hinder his attempts. Snape growled and looked up at her angrily.

"For Merlin's sake woman, stop standing there gaping and help me up," he hissed, apparently regaining enough energy to snap at her. Rosaline submitted and helped Snape to his feet. He gasped with the effort and leaned heavily on her.

"You can't make it to your quarters by yourself…" Rosaline said quietly, supporting the injured man as best she could. Snape growled.

"Fine, Miss Staunton," he hissed, hiding the weakness in his voice, "I need to get back to my rooms and sleep. Since you're so sure I can't make it, then you will accompany me." He was clearly in no shape to make that small journey himself and he knew it, though he'd never admit it. Rosaline was mildly flattered that he would accept her help, however indirectly.

Rosaline wrapped one arm around his narrow waist, and with the free one, held firmly onto his hand which hung from the arm loosely draped around her neck. Ignoring the warmth of him, and the enticing smell he gave off, Rosaline slowly started walking towards the castle, supporting Snape as best she could.

Their progress was slow – Rosaline was more than half a foot shorter than the tall man, and despite his strong refusal to go to the Infirmary, he was very weak, and in a great deal of pain. The young witch could feel him shudder as they slowly climbed down the stairs of Hogwarts to the dungeons, every gentle step jarring enough to hurt.

They finally reached the entrance to Snape's quarters, beyond many twisting corridors and confusing turns. Rosaline was more than aware that she would have a hell of a time finding her way back to the staircase.

Snape held his wand loosely and mumbled a few words over the door, releasing the enchantments which kept it locked. The door swung open silently on it's hinges, and Rosaline dragged the professor through.

With great difficulty, she got him to his bed and deposited him upon it. Snape collapsed back, losing consciousness almost instantly. Rosaline stood looking down at the prone figure on the bed. Silently, she removed his boots and wrestled his cloak out from under him. She briefly hesitated, then decided he certainly couldn't sleep in his robe and began unbuttoning it. She had little difficulty pulling his arms from the material and tugging it from under him – his entire body seemed bonelessly relaxed, much like that of a sleeping feline. She glanced at the white shirt and black slacks Snape wore under his robe.

_'I somehow doubt he'd appreciate it much if I took those off for him,'_ she though, a small grin springing to her lips. Instead, Rosaline satisfied herself with undoing Snape's cuffs and the top buttons of his shirt, hoping that he would be comfortable.

Stepping back, Rosaline realised she was hesitant to leave, and more than a little worried. Snape had always appeared so strong to her, so powerful, so…invincible. 

"Much like my parents," Rosaline whispered softly to herself. The young witch wandered out into what appeared to be the sitting room, and sat down on one of the large armchairs which faced the fireplace. She curled up and stared blankly at the empty hearth, overcome with memories and emotions. It was that long night, while Rosaline stood guard over the sleeping Snape, that she realised there was something she felt for the Potions Master which was far deeper than lust.


	5. Somewhere I Have Never Travelled

**_Disclaimer: Not mine – Rowling's. Chapter title it from e e cumming's poem, the first stanza of which is quoted at the beginning of the chapter._**

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**_CHAPTER 4: SOMEWHERE I HAVE NEVER TRAVELLED_**

****

_"somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond_

_ any experience, your eyes have their silence:_

_ in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,_

_ or which i cannot touch because they are too near"_

_                        -e e cummings-_

It was late morning before Snape finally awoke. His entire body hurt, which was understandable. Three times. Three times Voldemort had turned the Cruciatus Curse on him. Because he hadn't had any worthwhile information to present the Dark Lord with.

Snape tried to sit up and groaned softly, falling back, the insidious effects of the Cruciatus still in his body. How had he gotten back here last night? He blinked and tried to sit up again, his efforts rewarded with a petrifying pain through his entire body.

Rosaline. That impertinent girl! She'd half-dragged him back to his quarters, and then he'd fallen asleep…Snape finally managed to pull his upper body up, then looked down at himself and grimaced. She'd half-undressed him. Slowly, and with great care, Snape swung his legs around and sat, breathing raggedly, on the edge of the bed. It was always like this, the morning after. Pain so debilitating he could barely move. Snape carefully ran a shaking hand through his lank hair and sighed.

_'How could I be so careless as to let someone find me? That girl, particularly.'_ Snape scowled, and stretched his hand towards the small table beside his bed. Every action seemed so difficult, so painful. 

He plucked his wand off the surface and held it loosely. He did not look at it, nor at anything else – he simply sat, his eyes half-lidded. Gently, after a long pause, he passed the wand over the front moulding of the bedside table. It shimmered gently, and a small drawer appeared. Placing his wand down again, he pulled it open. There was a small jewellery box, it's covering the deepest black velvet. Snape picked it up and held it in the palm of one long hand, looking at it.

A long moment passed before the man opened the case. Inside, on a bed of black satin, sat a delicate silver hairpin, its sole decoration a leaf-shaped green emerald on the end. Snape stared at it for a moment, his face devoid of expression. His eyes, however, glittered strangely.

He shut the case with a snap, deposited it back into the drawer, closed it and hid it again with his irritated flick of his wand. A faint sigh, a mere breath of sadness, escaped the immobile man's lips. Eventually, he began unbuttoning his shirt, and peeled it off, before standing slowly and making his way carefully to his bathroom. A long, hot shower would help him. Strange, how he always told himself that after nights such as the one he just lived through, and yet it never did any real good.

~*~

Snape stepped from the shower stall and sighed. His body ached all over with a dull, thudding pain that he knew would haunt him for days. It always did. As his hair dripped on the floor he looked down at his left forearm. Though not visible now, he knew the Dark Mark was there. He could feel it, in his bones, in his blood.

Snape dried himself quickly and pulled on a pair of loose pyjama bottoms, black, of course. He didn't know what time it was, and didn't care. A cup of tea and then back to bed, to try and get some more sleep, and allow his broken body to heal. He walked from the bath through the bedroom, picked up his wand, and headed out into his study. It was cold in here; the hearth was empty and the dungeons almost always retained their chill, even in the heat of mid-summer. As Snape walked towards the fireplace, he froze, catching something out of the corner of his eye.

Turning slowly, Snape looked down at one of the two armchairs – the one normally left empty. Rosaline was curled up, sleeping quietly. The tall man stared at her for a moment.

_'What on earth is she still doing here?' he asked himself. Yes, she had shown concern last night, more than most would have. As well, she had complied with his request to avoid the infirmary, rather than dragging him there, as she well could have. Snape sneered at himself. That was the answer._

_'She just didn't want to risk the chance of my timely, lonely death on her lily-white hands.' Yet, somehow, Snape couldn't force himself to believe this. A rebellious voice, the same which had plagued him in the past regarding her, found itself._

_Maybe she cares about you._

Snape shook his head and angrily lit a fire in the grate with a hissed charm. He made to stalk back to his bedroom, put on a cloak and literally throw the sleeping woman out, but as he risked another look down at Rosaline, that idea melted away into nothingness.

She looked so innocent when asleep, the faint lines of pain and sadness which had begun to mar her lovely face smoothed away. She looked much the same as she did 7 years ago. Half unaware of what he was doing, Snape sunk into his armchair, his eyes never leaving Rosaline's sleeping form. Her hair had half fallen over her face, partially curtaining it. Her observer fought down the desire to brush it aside.

Snape was never sure afterwards how long he sat watching Rosaline. There were no conscious thoughts in his mind; his faculties were all centered on her. Minutes, hours, days later, she opened her eyes.

The duo stared at each other silently for a long moment, until Snape realised he had neglected to put on a shirt. He coughed, mildly embarrassed. Rosaline's lips spread in a slow smile; the most genuine he had seen since she had arrived.

"You're feeling better."

Snape nodded, now very conscious of his somewhat exposed position. "I am. Thank you," he added stiffly, as an apparent afterthought, "for your assistance last night."

Rosaline unfolded herself slowly, her careful movements graceful in the manner all Potions' Masters seemed to inherently posses. Some sense of female decorum made her attempt to smooth the front of her sadly wrinkled robe, a move which also allowed her to occupy her eyes and hands. She was finding it very difficult to keep both off Snape's lean chest. It was, surprisingly enough, well proportioned, in a lithe, slender way. And the smooth, soft looking black hair which crept up from his pyjama bottoms and around his belly button, trailing off as it crawled higher over his stomach, was not making things easy for Rosaline's self-control. 

Snape took the opportunity to back away from the fireplace and into his bedroom. The young witch remained where she was, feeling more uncertain and nervous than she had in years. Just as she began to wonder if this was Snape's very tactless way of telling her to leave, he returned, a loose, long-sleeved black shirt, elegant in its simplicity, covering his torso. As well, he had a small bottle in one hand, his wand in the other. Rosaline looked at him curiously.

"Floo powder," was the curt response. 

Snape walked to the hearth and lit a fire with a softly murmured charm. He turned then, to fix the immobile witch with his piercing stare. "Well?"

Rosaline's face darkened slightly, but she said nothing, and simply strode to the tall man's side. Snape masked his surprise; he had half-expected some angry retort, or perhaps a scathing insult. The girl she had been would not have let his rude treatment of her pass unmentioned. The girl she had been had shown that blasted Gryffindor bravery and defiance towards him at every chance she got.

Snape wondered for the first time if, perhaps, her spirit had truly been broken. Yes, he had seen a spark in her eyes a few times since she had arrived, but it had always been dulled, hidden. The sadness that came with this revelation shocked him beyond all else.

Rosaline looked up at the tall man beside her and met his gaze. Neither spoke, they merely studied the other's closely guarded face. Much to Snape's surprise, Rosaline finally reached out her hand and plucked the jar of Floo powder from his grip, never taking her eyes off his as she did so. She opened it and tossed a pinch in, directing her eyes towards the fire, which flared bright green. She gently placed the bottle on the mantle.

She stood still for a moment, staring into the fire while Snape stared at her. Finally, Rosaline inclined her head in his direction, her eyes still half-lidded and looking downwards, a strangely shy gesture which the Potions' professor found both out of place and arousing.

"I'm very relieved you're alright, Professor," the young woman whispered softly, carefully.

"Severus."

She blinked, and looked up, surprise visible in her dark green eyes. Snape watched her.

"Severus," he repeated. "We are colleagues…and I would prefer that you call me Severus."

Rosaline smiled, and nodded. "Severus," she said softly, her eyes half-closing again, as if tasting the word, feeling how it rolled off her tongue and around her mouth, savouring it the way one would savour a fine wine.

Before Snape had a chance to speak again, she stepped into the fire, called out her room, and disappeared. Snape was left standing on his own.

~*~

By an unspoken agreement, both Rosaline and Snape took the remains of that day off, and rested. The day after they returned to work, and continued in much the same manner in which they had passed the beginning of the summer. Yet, Rosaline continued to address Snape by his first name, and the long silences between them gradually became fuller and fuller of unspoken words. Despite Rosaline's acceptable informality with Snape, he seemed more reluctant to let down that particular barrier. It was a week later that he first called her by her given name, calmly, in normal conversation. Rosaline let it pass without comment or notice. And so they began to defy some law of nature by becoming less formal and reserved yet more awkward with each other.

A long, hot July had just been upon them, and in an instant it seemed to be drawing to a close. The two worked all the harder, knowing that when the school year began, the time which could be dedicated to research and testing would be severely restricted.

It was in this manner that August began. The heat was stifling, and Hogwarts grew more and more unbearable. Even the dungeons were somewhat uncomfortable, and cooling charms required far too much energy to be truly efficient on a grand scale. So the denizens of the castle suffered on, staying outside in the cooling breezes as much as possible.

Rosaline felt the heat the hardest – she had never been one for overly hot weather, and she felt herself perceptibly wilt as the days drew on.

_'How does he do it?' she thought enviously, watching Snape, who appeared perfectly comfortable, as they sat in the sweltering library late one afternoon. He was engrossed in some book, while it was all Rosaline could do to stay awake. She couldn't read, her mind being completely occupied with images of cold lakes, icy drinks and driving snow storms._

With a groan, she allowed her head to fall forward onto an open volume. Snape glanced up in surprise. Rosaline looked up at him as best she could from her position, an extremely pathetic look on her face. Much to her surprise, Snape's mouth curled up into an honest grin.

"I've always been very resilient to temperature extremes, but I assume you are not a fan of hot weather?" he asked, smoothly picking up on Rosaline's unspoken thoughts. She simply blinked at him, looking that much more plaintive.

With what sounded alarmingly like a soft chuckle, Snape shut his book. Rosaline barely had time to register that she had actually heard him _laugh before he stood up and began piling the books off to one side of the table so as to create some semblance of order._

The young woman sat up and looked at the tall man quizzically.

"We've done all the work we will be able to accomplish today, Rosaline. It would be prudent to simply spend the rest of the day relaxing. You're unable to concentrate in this heat. Perhaps tomorrow we can work in the dungeons; it might be somewhat cooler there."

Rosaline stood uncertainly and nodded. "Alright…thank you."

Snape looked at her in surprise. "No thanks it necessary," he said stiffly, some of the old chill creeping back into his silken voice, "you are merely unable to continue working in this heat – it's understandable. There's no point in forcing you to do so. Besides, I doubt I could force you to do anything." The attempted sneer failed miserably, coming out as something akin to gentle teasing.

Rosaline watched Snape carefully for a moment, then smiled, a mischievous glint in her eyes. "Severus, would you like to go swimming?"

~*~

Snape stood awkwardly on the gently sloping lawn which bordered the lake. He had no idea why he had agreed to accompany Rosaline down here, he was certainly not about to join in her proposed activity. And now, he was standing with his back to her and the lake, 'keeping watch' as she did…something. He preferred not to speculate on what. 

There was the sound of splashing for a few minutes, then he heard her calling to him. Snape turned to see her treading water, a good twenty feet out from the shore.

"Your turn!" she called to him, with what looked like a smile on her face. Snape stood impassively, arms crossed, as his face re-arranged itself easily into its familiar scowl.

"I think not," he muttered.

"What?"

Snape growled and stalked closer to the water's edge. Rosaline's clothes lay in a bundle there – or rather, what looked like her robe. Either she was still wearing her underwear, or she hadn't been wearing any to begin with. Snape paled at that thought, before a blush crept slowly into his sallow cheeks.

"Come on," she said – she was now 10 feet from the shore, "you came down here in the first place. Look, I'll turn around and I won't look till you're safely in the water, and even then I'll stay at least 10 feet away from you at all time, ok? Just keep your boxers on!" Rosaline grinned. "Provided you're wearing underwear, of course."

Snape opened his mouth to protest – loudly – but Rosaline's gentle laugh caused him to stop. She seemed…happy. This slow, but perceptible change in her had been growing over the past months. Most days, she would be much the same as she had been when she first arrived here – cold, silent and closed in on herself – but on some rare occasions, such as today, she was in an honestly good mood, to the point where she let down her guard a bit and smiled. Usually at him.

"Bloody hell," Snape muttered, and started pulling off his boots. He could see Rosaline grinning.

"Swim out and turn around!" he barked, more for his own sense of dignity. They both knew she had already won.

Rosaline complied with his request and turned around, half treading water, half floating on her back. She stared up at the sky and smiled. The water was deliciously cool on her skin, and the air was so warm, it was delightful to feel the contrast of the two elements on her body. She watched the large, perfect fluffy clouds float past, and allowed her mind to wander back her 7th year – that night she had snuck down to the prefect's bath, and floated in the huge bathtub, watching a ceiling that looked similar, though far bluer, to the evening sky now above her. And afterwards…that night, that encounter with Snape. He had terrified and attracted her. And now…

Rosaline's thoughts were interrupted by splashing near the shore. She submerged her body and waited. She did not turn, even as the soft sound of displaced water approached her, closer than she had expected and hoped.

_'Maybe he does still terrify me,' she wondered, __'just in a different way.'_

"Rosaline."

She turned in the water. He was a few feet away from him, his slim shoulders and long, elegant neck in view, above the water.

The sun was sinking slowly closer to the horizon to the west, behind Rosaline. It turned the dark water fiery orange. Snape watched her carefully, his dark hair wet now, and smoothed back from his face. The fading light bathed his face, smoothing away lines and hollows. Unaware of what she was doing, Rosaline closed the distance between them.

"Severus."

Carefully, she brought her right hand up from the water and placed it lightly on his cheek. He closed his eyes and sighed, a tiredness settling over his features. When he opened his eyes again, Rosaline had to use all her willpower to not shy away. Those orbs were full of a dark, violent passion. It scared her. 

He growled, and with sudden movement, wrapped the young woman in his arms and kissed her deeply.


	6. Scar Tissue

**_Disclaimer: You've __all read it at least once before. I __know you have. So don't sue._**

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**_CHAPTER 5: SCAR TISSUE_**

Rosaline allowed herself to be caught up and held tightly, mildly surprised, but at the same time aware that this was the logical culmination of this little outing.

_'Did we both know this would happen?' a small part of her mind wondered. The rest of her consciousness was consumed with the man who was kissing her, and whom she was kissing back._

This was no shy first kiss. This was passionate and hungry. Rosaline moaned into Snape's mouth, and was rewarded with his tongue caressing hers. Despite the chill of the water, she felt a heat suffusing her body, concentrated specifically in her lower abdomen. She wrapped her arms around him, splaying her fingers across his shoulders and back with the intention of pulling him closer.

With a gasp, she yanked her hands away as though they'd been burned. Snape shuddered, a choked noise emanating from his throat as he pushed away from her.

"Your back…" she whispered. The skin had felt wrong. Not soft and natural. Rough, upraised, and strangely smooth. Scar tissue…lots of it. Rosaline moved close to him again with a few powerful, quick strokes of her arms.

"Severus…let me see."

Snape shook his head, and sneered half-heartedly. "If you reacted that badly to mere touch alone, then I fear if you were to see the mangled wreck that is my back you might faint. And we can't have you drowning." His voice was dripping with sarcasm and anger now, and he was steadily moving away from her, towards the shore, carefully keeping his face towards her.

"Severus, no, please stop, I was only…"

"No, Rosaline," he spat out her name, as though it were a foul taste he longed to be rid of, "I understand completely. I'd appreciate if you would kindly turn around so that I might free you of the burden of my monstrous company."

Rosaline felt her throat closing up and the old familiar tingling at the corners of her eyes.

_'No, dammit! I will not __cry.' The old terror of losing control reared up in her mind, and automatically, she shut herself down. Her face smoothed into the stoic calm she had long since perfected, and the panic in her lovely eyes disappeared. Snape saw the change, and took a vengeful pleasure in it._

"Now, Miss Staunton," he hissed, "you will turn around so that I might leave."

"Fine, Professor," she whispered, her face and voice devoid of emotion. She turned to face the western horizon, where the sun had sunk down only moments before. The sky was beautiful, streaked with mauves and pinks and reds. Rosaline did not truly see it.

She did not move from that position for a long time, till the darkness of evening spread out from behind her, and the remains of daylight had all but faded. She swam back to the shore and waded up to the lawn. The air was somewhat cooler now, and she shivered – a wet bra and pair of panties were not much defence against night air, though her conscious mind did not register her discomfort. Her robe and boots was a few feet up the shore line, a dark bundle. She padded over the pile and dressed. Without a glance back, Rosaline started walking back towards the castle, and even in that darkness, where there was no one to see her, her face remained hard and cold.

~*~

The mirror shattered when the ornate silver candlestick hurtled into it. The gentle tinkling of broken glass hitting the floor was a soft, heart-breaking melody. A few shards clung pathetically, tenuously, to the frame. These splinters reflected a darkened room, occupied by an even darker figure.

Snape pushed his still-damp hair back from his face and looked dispassionately around the wreckage. His study was in shambles – one of the armchairs, the one Rosaline had slept in, had been upended, and the small table which sat between it and its mate was in pieces again the far wall from the violent contact it had made with that particular surface. The table on the other side of the room, the one he used as a work desk, had had the contents of its surface swept off in one fell motion and scattered around the floor, while the piece of furniture itself was on its side. The chaise in the corner and it's accompanying table had both been upended, the former leaning awkwardly against the bookshelves which lined its surrounding walls.

A fire burned low in the hearth, casting strange shadows on the destruction. Swaying drunkenly from exhaustion and emotion, Snape made his way to the still-standing armchair, collapsed into it, and buried his face in his hands.

Rosaline had no idea just how deeply she had wounded the dark man. He had never willingly allowed another person to see the scars he bore from his violent childhood. Lash marks, burn scars, and the remains of jagged, violent, deep cuts criss-crossed the flesh of his back. His father had enjoyed punishing his young son, and his mother had always been either in worse shape than he was, or a drunken stupor. No, young Severus had grown up quickly and brutally, the memories conveniently carved into his skin by his considerate father. Punishments for innocent mistakes, incorrect answers to questions he was constantly bombarded with, or merely because he was convenient and helpless, a readily available victim. 

Finally, in his 3rd year at Hogwarts, his father had gone one step too far, and beaten his wife to death. Azkaban was his final home for the last three years of his life. Snape, unsurprisingly, never visited. He did not mourn the death of his mother either. He had long since stopped associating himself with the drunken, snivelling wreck of a woman who haunted that house – she was weak, and Snape had learned early in life that he needed to be strong to survive.

He had been ripe for the picking when Voldemort had taken an interest in the brilliant boy. A mentally and physically scarred young man, with an undeniable lust for power – a power he had never tasted yet longed for all the same. And with that choice, came more horrors, which piled up thick and fast, till he was nearly consumed. The few sparks of light which remained in his young soul had all but extinguished before her made a desperate bid for salvation. Salvation, perhaps, but never absolution, never freedom.

So many scars, most of which filled him with shame and desperate, inescapable anger. Scars he had sworn to never show to anyone. And then he had trusted her. For some strange reason, he had allowed himself to trust that chit of a girl whom he barely knew. It had been years, perhaps decades, since he had had his shirt off in front of another person, and she had seen him, at perhaps his most vulnerable, twice in a few short weeks. And, when she knew the truth, had been repulsed.

Snape's mind tortured him that night.

~*~

The day dawned early. Rosaline had spent a long night of wakefulness through dark, slow hours. She did not stir from her room that morning, or afternoon, but merely sat in her small library, alternately watching the sun make its stately progress across the clear sky and pacing the breadth of the room like a caged animal.

Another sleepless night followed, and it was in the darkness of very early morning that she finally dared to venture forth. Scared and nervous, she made her way silently down to the eternal blackness of the dungeons. It was easy to lose oneself down there, beneath the grass and sunlight, and she feared Snape might be facing that very fate. Guilt and compassion had suffused her small frame steadily till she felt she would collapse under the weight of it. She had to find him.

The potions classroom was deserted and chill – it appeared as though no one had been in it recently. Taking a deep breath, she closed her eyes and willed the path she had taken, only a few nights before, to reappear. Rosaline knew the futility of the exercise – she had been too preoccupied, too inattentive to recall the way to Snape's quarters. She felt her throat close up, before a sudden, obvious thought occurred to her.

Turning on her heel, she strode briskly back out of the dungeons and up the many staircases to the South Tower. Inside her quarters, Rosaline stopped and looked around her parlour.

"There must be some here…" she muttered, and began searching the room, pulling open the drawers of small tables and exploring nooks and crannies previously unnoticed. Finally, she chuckled wryly and turned to the small mantelpiece which topped the even smaller hearth. There, tucked beside one of the candlesticks, was a small cloth bag. Carefully, as though unwilling to hope, Rosaline approached the fireplace and looked at the bag suspiciously. She didn't recall ever seeing it there before. Her rational mind shrugged this discrepancy off as she picked the sack up and pulled the top open. Sure enough, it was full of a shimmering silver powder.

Rosaline drew her wand from her sleeve and pointed it at the cold hearth.

"Incendio," she murmured, and watched a fire sprang to life. She wasted no time in tossing a pinch of powder into the flames which flared up, burning bright green. Rosaline stepped into the fireplace.

"Severus Snape's quarters at Hogwarts."

~*~

Snape had long since lost track of time. He had wandered his quarters on occasion, but more often he simply sat in his armchair before the hearth, his head in his hands as he remembered. His father calling him a worthless little monster, an infinite number of times. His mother's funeral. Rosaline, as a student, that night in his classroom when she had burnt her legs. His branding at the hands of Voldemort. The whimper that damned mirror in his bathroom always made when it reflected his back. The first time he killed someone. Rosaline again, on the lawn after the Graduation Ball when she had returned his kiss, free from the effects of any potion then. The first time he experienced the Cruciatus Curse. Her infinite green eyes. The shock and horror in those same eyes when she felt the skin of his back.

That final image returned to the forefront of his mind more often than any other. The horror which marred that lovely face, and pity in those lovely eyes. Pity. One of the most obscene emotions Snape could conceive of. It was entirely different from compassion, which he could accept. Pity was condescending; an unpleasant, uncomfortable feeling for both parties which were inevitably a part of it. A sickening, repulsive concept. He despised it, and far preferred to be hated and loathed. To be pitied implied one was a weak, pathetic thing, worthless and unworthy of any regard. At least with hate, there could be grudging respect.

Snape would not suffer pity at the hands of Rosaline. Never. He would sooner die.

With this revelation, he sat up. There it was. He would go on as though the previous night had never happened, and squelch any feeling he might have for the girl. And he would make her hate him. Better hated than pitied.

With sudden movement, Snape was out of the chair and half-way across the room. He strode into his bed chamber purposefully, retrieved his wand from its place on the bed where he had carelessly thrown it the night before, and waved it impatiently across the front of his bedside table. As soon as the drawer shimmered into view he yanked it open unceremoniously and pulled the jewellery case from it. Opening it, he retrieved the hairpin and dropped the box on the floor. 

Snape swooped out of the room and back into his study, his robe billowing behind him, the hairpin clutched between his thumb and forefinger. It was there that he was stopped dead in his tracks by the figure standing before his fireplace.

Rosaline's eyes were wide, her cheeks flushed, and her hair wild. He could see fear and apprehension flicking under the surface of her normally stoic visage, and he wondered at it for a brief instant, before a cold fury suffused him.

"What are you doing here," he whispered, his dangerously soft voice echoing through the silent room.

Rosaline did not look about her at the wreckage – her eyes remained locked on Snape's. "I came to apologise, and make sure you were…alright."

Snape sneered. "How considerate of you," he hissed, "to indulge your own pity and guilt. As you can see, I'm perfectly fine. Now get out." The hand which held the hairpin slyly slide into a pocket of his robe, where the pin was deposited.

Rosaline shook her head, her eyes remaining on the imposing figure across the room. "I'm not indulging any pity…maybe some guilt though." Her words poured out quickly then, in a torrent of sound. 

"I should not have reacted so badly, Severus, but I was caught off guard. And I allowed myself to be shocked. I think I realise now why you kept your back to me, that morning after I brought you back here, but I didn't even really notice it then. You…you don't let people see them ever, do you? And you gave me the opportunity," Rosaline's voice hitched in her throat, the emotion in her voice becoming more pronounced, "you trusted me, and I acted so badly, but once I got over the initial shock, which lasted only a few seconds, I just wanted to…I wanted to…"

Rosaline broke off and shook her head viciously, only then tearing her eyes from Snape's face. Her hands clenched at her sides, her nails digging into her palms. Snape watched her impassively, his fury slow to dissipate.

"I…I wanted to…hold you and tell you it…it was alright. That we all…we all have scars…" Rosaline trailed off, her voice fading to a whisper, her head hanging down now.

Snape smiled viciously. "How touching, Miss Staunton. Typical Gryffindor courage. You're so willing to put aside your own revulsion and accept the poor, scarred, tormented man. Perhaps you thought you could 'heal' me, as it were? You arrogant…little…bitch."

Rosaline's head snapped up, and she looked into his eyes with a mixture of horror and rage. In a few bounding strides, she crossed the chaos of the room and stood before him.

"How dare you," she spat, "I have no delusions about being some avenging angel to pull you from your self-imposed prison. But I know what it is to carry scars, you condescending bastard."

Snape did not lose his composure for a second, and merely sneered down at the young witch. "Yes, your parents died, and you bear those terrible _mental and __emotional scars. Would you like an award for their deaths? A nice commemorative plaque, perhaps?"_

Rosaline simply stopped, and stared up into the tall man's face. He saw, disconcertingly enough, that as he said those cruel words, the fire in her eyes spluttered and went out.

Slowly, carefully, she pulled her wand from her sleeve. She continued looking up into Snape's face as she passed the tip over her right wrist, then her left, whispering a soft "finite incantatum" as she did so. Neither of them broke eye contact, not until she drew one hand up to the same level as her face, palm towards Snape.

There was a long, jagged scar along the inside of her forearm, in a shape which gave the tall man the impression that it was a macabre mockery of a Christian cross. The other arm, which Rosaline then held up for inspection, bore the same mark. Then she started speaking in a low, monotone voice.

"It was a week after. I was roaring drunk, and completely filled with self-loathing and guilt. I should have been there, with them, I should have been tortured and died along with them. They were my only real family – the few other relatives I have are scattered about the globe, and I rarely saw them. So…I took a large, very sharp knife…and…well. 

"It was only when I realised what I was doing, and how wrong it was, that I panicked, and ran out of my flat, to my neighbours, who apparated me to St. Mungo's immediately…luckily I still had enough blood in my veins to do so," Rosaline's voice began to take on a wistful, almost sing-song quality, "I was always so strong…a Gryffindor. We're supposed to be brave, but I tried to do the most cowardly thing imaginable. I know shame, Severus. I know guilt and pain and blood and scars."

There was silence after she finished speaking. Snape's anger had burnt out, and was replaced with guilt and sadness, both of which he was afraid to show. They were both so wounded, so damaged. A long, sad sigh finally escaped his lips, and he closed his eyes. Rosaline still held her wrists up, bared to him.

Slowly, Snape opened his eyes and gently wrapped his long hands around her wrists, not flinching at the scar tissue under his fingers. The young woman did not weep or turn hysterical, as Snape had half-feared but not truly expected. She merely met his eyes, her own glittering strangely, full of an unexpected passion.

"Forgive me."

Snape's soft, deep voice, quiet as it was, rang through the room. The strain of saying such a phrase was clear on his face; he was unaccustomed to allowing himself to demonstrate such sincerity. Rosaline closed her eyes then, letting its sound wash over her. She nodded once, and sighed, the hardness of her face melting away into weariness.

"I'm very tired," she whispered. Snape nodded in return and, tentatively supporting her, he steered her towards the hearth. The fire had long since died out, and he began glancing around for his wand. A small, pale hand was suddenly on top of his own.

"Could…could I stay here tonight?" she whispered.

Snape was taken aback, but his carefully controlled face did not betray him. He paused, uncertain as to whether there was any innuendo present in that request. Rosaline must have understood his confusion and apprehension, because she continued quietly.

"I just don't want to be alone."

Resignation set in – Snape was too tired himself to argue.

"Fine," he said, struggling to keep the hard edge from his voice, and retreated into the bedroom. Rosaline followed at his heels, shadowing him closely, as though she were afraid to be away from him. While he found this mildly irritating – he was not by nature a tactile person – the trust she seemed to put in him was intoxicating.

He paused as he reached the side of his large bed, and surveyed it for a moment. Rosaline glided up silently behind him and stood quietly, close beside him. 

"You may sleep here. I'll be quite comfortable on the chaise," Snape said briskly, masking his uncertainty with his usual cold demeanour. Rosaline did not appear to notice him; she was merely looking at his bed.

"Rosaline?" he asked softly, a hint of gentleness creeping into his silken voice. She woke from her reverie and shook her head.

"No…I'll sleep on the couch. This is your bed." She shot him a weak smile and glided back out of the room. He debated whether to follow and argue while hearing the sounds of the chaise righting itself in the other room. Snape stepped slowly through the open door and stood still. The young woman had curled up on the sofa, her eyes closed already. He disappeared back into the bedroom and returned a moment later carrying a heavy blanket.

As he draped it over the still figure, Rosaline opened her eyes and looked up at him. Snape heard his inner voice scream at him, demand he pick her up, hold her close and never let go. Protect this small, strange, damaged creature from the world. But he knew that she was no delicate flower who needed protection, least of all his. He was not fit to protect anyone or anything.

"Good night, Rosaline," he managed to say, his voice carefully controlled. He turned, and without looking back, went into the other room and shut the door.

~*~

Sleep was elusive for a long time, even though he was exhausted. Snape finally closed his eyes and willed his mind to be still, and stop returning to the girl sleeping in the other room. It felt like mere minutes since he had lost consciousness when a soft noise woke him. The coverlet of the bed, on the side opposite the one he was curled up on, had been drawn back. There was a creaking as extra weight settled onto the mattress. Snape began to roll over, his head leading the way for his body, confusion and the first stirrings of indignation surfacing in his mind.

His thoughts were silenced when he found himself facing a pair of unfathomable green eyes. Any angry or cutting remarks died on his lips. With great care, Rosaline eased herself closer to Snape, till their clothing brushed; whatever she wore under those robes against his loose black pyjamas. Snape found his mind speculating on whether she was wearing _anything but his thoughts were dragged quickly back to reality she placed a hand on his shoulder and pushed gently but insistently, clearly wanting him to return to his previous position._

Snape resisted, unwilling to trust her, and to expose himself to her in that manner. Rosaline merely looked at him; a calm, beseeching expression on her face. Reluctantly, he allowed himself to be turned, his entire body tightening should he need to pull away from her quickly.

Rosaline's hand remained, light and reassuring on his shoulder, and her felt her moving closer still, till he could feel the heat of her skin against his; her warm breath on the back of his neck. Snape shivered, torn between the urge to pull away and push closer. No one had touched him like this for a very, very long time. It unnerved him, set him on edge. The contrast of light and dark, on many levels, was not lost on him.

It was then that her hand slid down from his shoulder and rested directly on his back, between his shoulder blades. Snape flinched at this sudden, unwanted contact, but Rosaline did not draw back. Her small hand stayed where it was, light and gentle. Snape made no move to pull away, succumbing to the reassurance that delicate contact conveyed.

Neither one moved for a long time, till finally, sleep overtook them.


	7. Culmination

**_Disclaimer: Nope. I still haven't bought out Rowling. Soon my pretties…soon…_**

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**_CHAPTER 6: CULMINATION_**

It was early evening the following day when Snape finally woke from the long-needed sleep. As his mind languidly stirred itself, the memories of the night before came crashing back. His senses came to strict attention, and with his eyes still closed, Snape realised Rosaline was no longer in the bed. He sat up slowly and looked around. Everything looked as it did the previous night. There were no sounds from the bathroom or the parlour. Snape realised with a shock that he was disappointed she was gone. He dispelled the sentiment with a quiet snarl and bounded out of bed.

He stalked to the bathroom and stripped, tossing his pyjamas carelessly on the floor. Snape stepped into the shower and turned the water to full blast, letting the near-scalding stream knock all thoughts from his mind. The liquid cascaded across his shoulders, down his tapered back and over his narrow waist. 

The ritual of bathing required little thought, in much the same manner as shaving. Snape stood before the mirror, foam smeared across his face, razor in hand. This calming ceremony of the morning always gave him some small solace, even when everything around him was crashing down. The small, comforting repetitions of life were where he found his peace. Order and rhythm, self-made and adhered to, when the world around was so chaotic. Few others would comprehend this sentiment – it was something which tended to be understood only by those individuals who had seen how random and anarchic the universe could be.

Snape padded, naked, back into his bedroom and began dressing, his train of thought continuing. Order in chaos. This desire was perhaps one of the most telling, in regards his deeper personality. His inherent neatness and mildly obsessive sense of order were a part of being a Potions Master, true, but these traits extended further than his classroom and private stock. It was in certain small, unimportant gestures and rituals that he maintained the semblance of control. Insignificant things, which were completely under his power.

Power. That really was what it all came down to. The cause behind these little idiosyncrasies was the same one which led him to Voldemort. Incredible, how such inconsequential actions could fulfill his need for control when the Dark Lord never could. But that was the trick. Voldemort promised power, glory, wealth, sex – whatever one desired. And in some ways, he granted it. But always with a price, and in Snape's case, the price had been his very soul. Even then, with so-called power, he was a slave to Voldemort. What great power he had; the power of deciding whether a few piddling Muggles lived or died.

It took that wretched choice to show Snape that he had never wanted control of others – rather, control over himself, and the part of the world which he inhabited. Not for the first time did the desire to blame his father surface in his mind. But Severus Snape had long since stopped lying to himself about that.

As he finished buttoning up his high-necked robe, he slipped his hand into the pocket and pulled out the silver hair pin. He snorted at himself with mild disgust and retrieved the jewellery case from where it still lay on the floor. After replacing the pin in the case and the case in the bedside table, Snape resigned himself to the task of righting the disaster that was his study. After that, he would find Rosaline.

~*~

Rosaline was not sure if she wanted to be found. She was sitting in the tub in her bathroom, the water already beginning to cool, with her knees pulled up to her chest and her arms locked around them. She had yet to recast the glamourie which hid her scars, and she could feel the shiny-smooth ridges rubbing against her shins.

She held one arm up and regarded it impassively. She slowly traced the line of the scar with the forefinger of her other hand, and shivered. He had touched them. Had understood, without words, how much trust she had given him at the moment she revealed the horrible marks. Her shame. Her misery. 

Rosaline sighed and climbed slowly out of the bathtub. Wrapping a large, fuzzy towel about herself, she prepared herself to face her hope and terror, compacted into the figure of one man.

He had become so much to her, over these few, brief months. It was as though they had picked up where that night on the lawn left off, as though those seven years had passed in the blink of an eye. Yet so much had happened. Such tragedy in her young life, altering her forever. And he had become more embittered, more hopeless, since the return of the Dark Lord.

Rosaline brushed her long hair dispassionately, then began to plait it into a simple braid, her thoughts far removed from that mundane task.

_'Is there any hope left for us?' she asked herself bitterly, __'or are we simply racing against the darkness that laps at our heels. If we stumble, who'll be there to catch us?'_

She dropped the brush carelessly on the bureau and wrapped a ribbon around the end of her plait to hold it together. She pulled a low-necked, long-sleeved robe on and wandered down the metal staircase into her library. As had become her habit, she curled up in one of the large armchairs and watched the sunlight disappearing slowly from the evening sky. There was so much beauty in the world, but now it always seemed to be just out of her reach.

Not for the first time, Rosaline ached for the innocence and simple joy she had lost when she lost her parents. There were so many regrets and so much guilt she now had to bear. For those first few months, the self-doubt and shame had threatened to suck her under. The fact that thoughts of Snape had been her salvation was not lost on the young witch. What would have happened if she had not remembered what had happened between them? True, at the time it had been nothing more than a school-girl crush. For her at least. But now…

Things had changed; there was no doubt of that. Her perception of him, the circumstances in which they were drawn together, the way in which they interacted. Hell, she was a changed woman in many respects. And she _was a woman – not a girl._

Rosaline shook herself and stood up. There was no point in hiding in her quarters like a scared child. She had lived through worse than a little heart-ache and confusion.

_'Besides,' she thought with a small grin, __'I'm hungry.'_

~*~

Meals were informal events over the summer. The staff who remained at the school came and went as they pleased during the course of the day, until late evening when the table was cleared by the house-elves. Even then, the kitchen was always an option.

Rosaline settled herself at the large table, away from the few remaining patrons; Sprout and Flitwick were engrossed in conversation, and Vector was absorbed in a book of some sort. This suited the young witch just fine, and she helped herself to some vegetables and a small cut of tenderloin. She was chewing thoughtfully, her mind preoccupied with what her next move should be, when Snape swept through the door, his robe billowing impressively, as usual.

_'I really must ask him how he does that,' Rosaline thought idly._

If the tall man was surprised to see her there, he did not let it show. Instead, he simply sat down at her side and speared a large hunk of beef with a serving fork before depositing on his plate. Rosaline watched him for a moment, one eyebrow raised. Snape returned the stare.

"Is there a problem?" he asked, a chill perceptible in his voice.

"Not at all," she said softly, "I was merely wondering if you were purposely trying to give yourself scurvy." 

Snape's expression darkened, but she could see a glimmer of amusement in his black eyes. He sneered at her, then made a show of spooning some peas and carrots onto his plate. Rosaline scrutinized him for a moment, then nodded towards another full, steaming bowl.

"What about the broccoli?"

To her amazement, Snape's scowl became even more pronounced, his loathing poorly concealed. "I…dislike broccoli."

Rosaline blinked for a moment, then burst into laughter. Her companion's mask of disgust broke for a moment, and honest surprise shone through. The breach was fixed a moment later, the scowl firmly in place again.

"And what, may I ask, is so funny about me not favouring broccoli?" he hissed.

Rosaline continued giggling for a moment, even when subjected to the full power of Snape's worst grimace. "Nothing, nothing…nothing at all."

She coughed a few times, then smiled sweetly. Snape eyed her for a moment, till she returned to her dinner. Even then, he could have sworn he heard a stifled laugh from her every so often.

~*~

Rosaline was in the midst of pushing her few remaining peas around her plate when Snape finally rose from the table. Without so much as a backward glance, he glided away and out the door. The young witch, caught off guard, bolted from her seat and trotted out of the hall to catch up to him.

"Severus!" she called as his long strides threatened to leave her far behind. He paused, but did not turn. Rosaline slowed to a walk and approached his lean back. She stopped behind him.

"We need to talk."

Snape turned and looked down at her, his face an expressionless mask. Rosaline found her lips suddenly dry as she looked up into his impenetrable eyes, and darted her tongue out to moisten them. She watched as his eyes seemed to drop to her lips, to watch that mildly sexual gesture, and noted with surprise that there seemed to be a faint flush of colour in his cheeks.

Boldly, she reached out and wrapped her fingers around his forearm. They both seemed to be amazed at her courage, and for a beat, neither one moved or spoke.

"Come up to my rooms."

The sentence hung in the air for a moment, full of a sudden innuendo she hadn't meant to insert, but was now almost glad she had. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, Snape nodded.

~*~

Rosaline felt mildly self conscious. She had never had someone in her rooms before, and was accustomed to regarding them as her personal, private space. Such concepts as these had become important to her after her parents death. She had needed someplace to hide, to be alone with her misery. Her flat in Diagon Alley had never been adequate for that task, and though her family manor in Ireland assured her of solitude, it had ceased to feel like home once her parents were gone from it.

Strange, how Hogwarts had become her home so quickly, as well as her sanctuary. 

Rosaline tapped the stylized dragon-head on the nose and murmured the password. The door swung open, and she stepped to one side, giving Snape a nervous half-smile. He stepped inside, but did not look around. Rather, his heart-stopping, intense gaze was fixed on the young witch, who stood looking back.

The first to break eye-contact, Rosaline stepped into the room and pushed the door shut. One hand remained braced against it, as if to draw strength from the old wood. It was in this moment of weakness that she felt his hot breath against the nape of her neck. There was a gentle tugging at her scalp, and she realised idly that he had unfastened her hair, and was now undoing the braid. This sudden, daring contact should have come as a shock, but it seemed so natural.

Slowly, almost painfully so, Snape lowered his head closer to Rosaline's shoulder and placed a burning kiss there, pulling his lips back so as to scrape his teeth across her white skin. Rewarded with a soft moan, Snape buried his hands in the wild waves of her hair and hungrily kissed his way up neck. 

He reached her jaw, and the woman spun in his arms and pressed her lips to his, fire on fire. As her hands twined in his hair, he lifted her bodily off the ground. She gasped once, before wrapping her legs around his waist. If she caught him off-guard with her eagerness, it was not apparent. Snape merely growled, deep in his throat, and thrust his tongue into her mouth. 

Carrying her easily into the library, he pulled his mouth from hers and buried it in her neck, kissing and biting. Rosaline moaned and arched her neck back, giving him free access to the soft skin of her décolletage.

"Bedroom," he growled into her ear.

"Upstairs," came the half-whispered, half-gasped response.

He climbed the circular staircase, taking the steps two at a time. Rosaline tightened her arms around his neck and buried her face in the crook of his neck and shoulder, breathing in his warm scent, her nails digging into his back. Any apprehension she had felt had long since faded. The aching in her lower abdomen had replaced most conscious thoughts.

Once in her room, Snape had her pressed up against a wall, her robes hiked up high around her legs. She moaned into his mouth which had again found hers. His hands were on her thighs now, holding her up, his fingers digging into the flesh there, one sliding up higher and higher. Those searching fingers found their way between her legs, and pressed into the moistness which had spread through her panties. Rosaline whimpered and ground herself against his hips, where she could feel the growing hardness.

Snape groaned then and half dropped her. She caught herself and leaned against the wall, panting. The tall man growled down at her and captured her mouth in another scalding, vicious kiss, as he ripped half the buttons off his robe. He reared away from her for a moment to pull his robe over his head, and was back on her in an instant, lifting her up again.

His strong fingers pushed her robe up to her waist and slid up her thighs again. She felt them wrap around the side of her panties. A still lucid part of Rosaline's consciousness wondered how he was planning to remove her underwear, and was answered when he ripped them away in one smooth motion.

"Oh gods, oh please Severus, oh please, yesyesyes," she moaned, her eyes squeezed shut in ecstasy as he sunk his teeth deep into her shoulder. She was half-aware that the same hand which had divested her of her underwear was now squeezed between their hips, engaged in some frantic task. Her thighs tightened around Snape's waist and she thrust her hips further forward.

Her eyes snapped open and a gasp was forced from her throat when she felt him pushing up against her inner thigh, hot and hard and silky smooth. The intense black eyes which stared into hers were full of fire, and Rosaline felt herself slipping into them.

"Oh please, Severus, pleasepleaseplease, oh now, yes…" she mumbled incoherently as he dug his fingers into her buttocks and pushed her higher up on the wall. One hand disappeared briefly from its place, and then she felt him nudging against her entrance. Tightening her thighs around his waist again, she gave one last push forward and impaled herself on him, sliding down hard, needing him all the way inside her. There was the briefest of pauses, as they both gave an inaudible sigh of relief at this final culmination of their long-held desire.

Instinct took over.

Snape tightened his grip on her, and began the heady rhythm of the dance. He was slamming into her mercilessly, over and over and over, till she felt the pressure would become too much and she would explode. Rosaline wanted that explosion, and drove herself onto him as well as she could, her lust dictating her movements.

Lips to lips, hands tangled in hair, her tongue invaded his mouth in much the same manner he invaded her. He was pumping faster now, his breath coming in grunts, hers in whimpered moans. They could feel it building, that delicious climb that was almost better than reaching the destination, that aching need that made them grind together all the faster.

"Oh gods yes, oh please please please, yes, oh GODS yes, oh now, oh please, Severus, please, now now _now!" Rosaline lost herself, not even realising she was speaking, only aware of him, hot and hard and inside her, pushing her closer, so close now. _

Her entire body stiffened, and she forgot about the world, screaming as her every conscious desire was met in a raging peak of shuddering muscles and obscene pleasure. Her head thrown back, Rosaline cried out, singing the glory of her climax.

Her body clenching and fluttering around him, Snape was pushed over the edge. His teeth again found her shoulder and bit deep, deeper this time, deep as blood, and he groaned through a clenched jaw, his own peak dizzying in its intensity. The tendons on his neck stood out like chords as he erratically thrust himself into her, his steady rhythm lost to the anarchy of orgasm.

With careful, shaking steps, Snape carried them both to Rosaline's bed. He put her down gently, and lay down slowly beside her, not trusting his now weakened body. She curled up to him instinctively, and he wrapped his arms around her, holding her close.

They stayed that way for a long time.


	8. The Aftermath

**_Disclaimer:_** You all know the drill. Don't sue ^_^

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_CHAPTER 7: THE AFTERMATH_

Rosaline did not sleep. She found herself too engrossed in studying Snape's face to succumb to her body's petulant demand. The scowl lines that marred the object of her interest's visage while awake were less obvious now, smoothed by sleep. She had always loved to watch a person's face as they slept. The serenity that seemed to bless the unconscious in turn helped to bring Rosaline peace. 

The young woman had thus far tried to deny herself any significant retrospection at what this new turn of events foretold, but now, after an immeasurable amount of time, her mind rebelled. As her senses were engrossed in the sleeping man beside her, so her mind was engrossed in painful exploration of possibilities. Would this, whatever it now was, continue? Was this merely an isolated occurrence that, for an infinite number of reasons, could never be repeated?

As if to mirror her troubled thoughts, Severus' brows drew together in concentration, a mock-serious look, which perhaps signified some disconcerting dream. Rosaline gently ran her fingers along his cheek, hoping to chase away whatever thoughts were disturbing his sleep. It appeared to work – Severus' face smoothed and he sunk back into seemingly blissful oblivion.

Carefully, Rosaline pulled away from her newfound lover and crept out of the bed. A thousand and one thoughts raced through her mind now, and there was no respite to be found, even in watching Severus sleep. She pulled her wrinkled robe over her head and dropped it on the floor as she headed towards the washroom.

As she ran a bath, Rosaline stood in front of the mirror and stared at herself. Her hair was a wild nimbus around her pale face, and the inflamed bite marks – one bloody, it's now-dry rivulets forming a snaking pattern of reddish-brown down her shoulder and onto her chest  – stood out in stark contrast to her white skin. She smiled wanly.

_'I look as though I lost a fight…'_

The thought sent a shiver down Rosaline's spine. She banished it with a shake of her head and climbed into the steaming water of the now full tub.

_'Did I want this?'_ she asked herself, only to find an affirmative response was immediately forthcoming. _'But did I want _only_ this,'_ she persisted,_ 'this one night? Could I even _have_ a relationship? Could he? Does he _want_ one?"_

Rosaline sighed and pulled her legs up to her chest, letting her head fall forward to rest on her knees. Too many questions, most of them unanswerable. And too many doubts; doubts about herself, doubts about Severus…all prodding and picking at her hopes, tearing them down with the stark coldness of reality.

_'We're both very emotionally fucked up people, and Severus has an extremely complicated and dangerous life…which merely leads to a whole new slew of problems. I don't know what he's done as a Death Eater, or what he's still doing, if only to keep up a front…a front. Spying. What if he was discovered? What if he dies? Oh gods…' _Rosaline whimpered softly and hugged her legs tighter.

She had worked so hard to separate herself from people. Perhaps she hadn't really known, consciously, why she did so, but it was clear now. Since the death of her parents, Rosaline had denied herself any true friendship or intimacy with another person, for the sole reason that if there was no one to care about, there would be no one to lose. No one to die and leave her alone, full of pain and guilt. And to be close to someone now, someone whose life was so precarious, so uncertain…

"No," she whispered hoarsely.

~*~

There is always that feeling of confusion and mild panic upon awaking in a strange place. The transition from slumber to wakefulness should be gentle, without the rudeness of alarm clocks or, for that matter, other people. And while Snape woke of his own accord, confusion nevertheless invaded his sleep-fogged mind. He lay still, his eyes closed – a self-preservation technique he'd picked up long ago, courtesy of his father of course – while gathering his senses about him and trying to access his memory.

Rosaline.

Her smell permeated the air around him…and the night before came flooding back. She was no longer in the bed. Snape opened his dark eyes slowly, and sat up. Nor was she in the room. He swung his legs over the side of the mattress and stood, listening carefully. There was no noise from the adjoining bathroom, and the door was half open. The tall, graceful man paused then, taking in the circumstances.

Why had she left the room? Snape frowned slightly. His sadly under-fed sense of self-worth began whispering inside his head, reminding him of all his faults, aesthetic flaws and moral failings, while putting forth the not-so-unlikely notion that the beautiful young Rosaline had merely woken, regained her senses, and thrown herself out of her bedroom window rather than live with the fact that she had slept with Snape-the-Greasy-Git.

A subtle tightening of the fists and jaw was enough to allow Severus to regain his usual control of his faculties. The bad temper, however, remained, giving him a small rush of vicious satisfaction.

_'So what?'_ he asked irritably, _'this is who I am. The girl knew that when she so blithely invited me up here. Hell, she knew it the first second she stepped into my classroom as a first year student.'_

This comparison caused Snape's stomach to twist rather uncomfortably – remembering that the woman he had just bedded the previous night was once his 11-year-old student was not an overly soothing thought. He grimaced, uncertain why he was in such a bad mood – wasn't sex supposed to make one feel _better_?

_'Not as though I'd remember,'_ he thought with grim humor.

Realizing that there was nothing to do other than find Rosaline, Severus pulled off his ripped robe and tossed it over one arm before heading downstairs in his very wrinkled shirtsleeves and slacks. Perhaps she would be in the small library he had briefly glimpsed last night; it seemed well used.

Success. He could see the auburn halo of her hair above the top of the plush, claret armchair that faced the window as he quietly descended the spiraling metal staircase. Though she did not move or make any noise to indicate she had heard him, Snape was too good astute to assume she was not aware of his presence; those damned iron steps made his every footfall echo and clang.

Still, as long as she was willing to play this little game, Snape saw no reason why he should be the first to speak. He draped the ruined robe over the handrail of the staircase and approached the young woman cautiously – he was unsure what to expect, but his mind, as always, was bracing him for the worst. Different incarnations of her face sprung to mind. Tear-stained and tragic, distraught at the horrible, horrible mistake made last night. The eyes cold while the mouth laughed cruelly at the joke played on him: _'Me, want _you_? You're a bigger fool than I originally believed!'_ Or the worst (best?), lifeless and waxen – dead.

Another tightening of the jaw now, another reclamation of control.

Snape paused behind the tall-backed chair, and let out a silent sigh. Slowly he glided around the right side and cast a sidelong look down at the young woman.

Her face seemed drawn and pale, and he could see the edge of that final, vicious bite-mark he had inflicted upon her shoulder peeking out from the neckline of her simple, black robe. She did not look up to meet his gaze, but the concentration that she palpably exerted staring out the window made it clear that she was very much aware of his presence. It would have taken a very dim Hufflepuff to not realize that something was certainly amiss. 

Rather than immediately attempt to provide comfort and care, Snape stood at stiff attention. He did not know how to console or soothe – he had never received such tenderness himself. 

_'Clearly, I am ill prepared to play the role of the attentive lover,'_ he sneered to himself. Any pleasant, hopeful thoughts his mind might have clung to slipped away, replaced with bitterness and acrimonious sentiments towards this strange creature who, the night before, he maybe-almost-loved.

Rosaline did not know the thoughts running through Severus' head, but she was aware that he had not yet spoken. Ironically, that in itself told her more than could have been expressed in words.

She was not hopeful enough to assume that he would try to understand what she was feeling or, gods forbid, want to talk about it. No, he was the type of person who simply readied the weapons, put up the walls and shut down emotionally when confronted with a…problem of this nature. She knew this because she had become the exact same way. And two people like that simply could not have a relationship, let alone a healthy one. So really, it was far better this way.

_'Better or easier?'_ a small voice inside Rosaline's head asked. She promptly had it executed for treason.

Still, neither side of this private war made the opening gambit. Snape stood impassively, staring out the same window as the expressionless Rosaline. If she had looked up at his face, the young witch would have clearly seen the poker-face fading, the storm clouds gathering on his brow, and the muscles in his jaw slowly clenching and unclenching as he quietly ground his teeth together. Simply put, Snape was becoming angrier by the second. And he didn't exactly know why.

He did know, however, that this little game was trying his patience.

"Either say something or desist from appearing as though you had been put in a full body-bind," he hissed suddenly, his voice dangerously low.

Rosaline started, but did not respond. She merely wrapped her arms around her upper body and hugged herself tightly. Snape made a noise of irritation and swooped down upon her, his hands resting on either arm of the chair, his face inches from hers.

"What the hell is the matter with you, woman?" he whispered, his soft tone serving to enhance rather than mask his unstable mood.

Rosaline looked at him blankly, her eyes seeming to stare straight through him.

"This was a mistake," she finally blurted out, "and I can't do it."

There was brief moment when Snape's eyes flashed with a strange, dark pain, but it was gone in a second. He pulled back and walked away from her. He retrieved his torn robe, walked into the parlor and out the doorway without pause. The door shut quietly behind him. Rosaline closed her eyes and curled up in a ball.

~*~

There are a select few individuals on this earth who, when faced with a grievous emotional wound (such as something akin to heart-break), have the ability to simply pick themselves up, dust themselves off, and continue on their merry way, somewhat the wiser and more mature. Neither Rosaline nor Severus could be counted as members of this blessed minority. 

They both, however, had developed the skill of throwing themselves into some labor or exercise which would completely occupy the mind and body, and therefore push any emotional injury into the background of the consciousness. A very useful talent to have, in many respects, except for its one, major drawback. It did not really solve anything. Once the chosen task had been completed, the pain and preoccupation would inevitably return.

Despite this unavoidable outcome, both Severus and Rosaline reverted to their old habits – he in his dungeon and she in her tower, each inadvertently fitting into their respective archetype of Monster and Maiden.

So let us first turn our attention to our supposed Monster. It's quite certain that if one were to address him as such, they would receive a piercing look, but no real denial. Perhaps that silence would serve to cause the accuser more discomfort than the stare. However, this is entirely beside the point. Snape was toiling in his laboratory, the epitome of a mad scientist, in more ways than one.

He was angry. More than angry, really. But that emotional reaction had been pushed aside and beaten down into the recesses of his mind, where it currently stewed, preparing to burst forth all the more viciously when finally released. But for now, Snape, as was predicted, was quickly dicing up the liver of an unfortunate tortoise, while a rather small cauldron simmered at his elbow. 

There was an air of volatility about him, and though his face was hidden by sheaves of greasy, black hair, one could be certain that a certain manic concentration glittered in his eyes as he worked, even as his face gave one the distinct impression of a marble statue.

Finishing his task, he swept up the prepared liver with one long hand and dropped the pieces in the cauldron, which belched forth a cloud of deep purple smoke. The fire was extinguished then, and instantly, a small bottle of phoenix tears was produced, opened, and a carefully, if quickly, measured spoonful was trickled into the vessel.

The potion seemed to calm with this new addition, and turned a deep emerald green, trails of gold and red appearing and disappearing on the surface as Snape slowly stirred the cooling concoction. To the casual observer, he appeared to be watching the spoon as it made its slow trail through the potion. But appearances are always deceiving, particularly with Severus Snape. His mind was miles away, his body merely carrying out a much-repeated action.

There was one aspect of the potion that his mind did register, though – its colour. It was alarmingly similar to that of the young Miss Staunton's eyes, when she was particularly angry. Or aroused.

Snape's fingers tightened around the long handle of the pewter spoon, to the point that the knuckles turned white, but the slow, steady, circular motion did not falter. He had regained control over his body, after last night's little escapade.

Now here merely needed to stifle his imaginative mind. He smiled mirthlessly down at the contents of the cauldron, then ladled a small spoonful of the solution into a glass produced from some hidden pocket of his robes.

He scrutinized the liquid for a moment, his face retaining its ever-impassive expression, only to be betrayed by his eyes. They seemed dead now, there was no spark of life, or even intelligence, within them. Two black voids.

Severus put the edge of the glass to his lips and downed the potion in a single go.


	9. Dark As Night

**_Disclaimer:_**

_There's nothing to say which you don't know by now;_

_J.K. Rowling owns Snape (the damned jammy cow)._

_I'm not trying to steal or infringe on her rights,_

_Just borrowing Severus for one or two nights._

If only…*sighs and grins* As well, I snicked the phrase "jammy cow" from Sphinx's beautiful "Letter from Exile one Merciful Morning". Go read it, and be completely entranced.

As always, I neither own Snape nor any other part of Ms. Rowling's wonderful universe.

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**_CHAPTER 8: DARK AS NIGHT_**

Sadly, for a moment we must leave the embittered man in the dungeons to his own devices, and turn our proverbial gaze to our so-called Maiden.

Rosaline had escaped her quarters, dismayed to find that there was a lingering scent of lemon balm and rosemary, of _Snape_, that stubbornly refused to dissipate, no matter how many windows she opened. The Quidditch pitch seemed a suitable hiding place, but now, as the wind whipped stinging beads of what had appeared to be a light rain into her face, Rosaline wondered if she should re-think her location. A cold drop of water rolled off her wet hair and down the back of her neck, sending an involuntary shiver through her.

She looked out at the gray, rain-blurred vista of rolling Scottish highlands and pushed several strands of clinging wet hair off her face. She was getting soaked; she hadn't bothered with a water-repelling charm for her cloak. She allowed herself a rueful smile.

_'And it seems more melodramatic and pitiful this way.'_

With a small sigh, Rosaline stood up and began picking her way through the bleachers and out of the stadium. This was no time for self-pity. She had made a difficult choice, but in the long run, it would all work out.

"Gotta do what's best for me," she murmured, only half believing the words. 

She tramped over the soggy ground back to Hogwarts, her head down, eyes unseeing. This was the best thing for her, wasn't it? Severus was certainly not the most loveable person, not by any stretch of the imagination. 

_'Who said anything about love?'_ she thought sourly, a scowl inflicting unattractive lines on her face, _'he probably only wanted a quick fling anyways. Now that it's out of the way…'_

Rosaline found herself at an impasse. What _would_ happen now? She somehow doubted that things would go back to the way they had been. Despite the sexual tension, which had increased exponentially each day they spent together, they had been…comfortable. After a fashion. Once Snape had stopped harassing her with his caustic wit at every possible opportunity, and she had stopped allowing herself to be baited, they had found a place somewhere between grudging respect and _very _casual camaraderie. Rosaline felt a pang at the thought that they would lose the tenuous basis of friendship, all because of her…infatuation.

Even the reasons, which had seemed so sensible in early morning light, were now trite and cowardly. And now she was deeply entrenched in this horrid mess. First because she'd acted on a stupid, girlish crush, and second because she'd acted on a stupid, girlish fear.

The scowl deepened. _'No, this wasn't all my fault. It's not as though I stupefied him, dragged him into my bedroom and raped him.'_

That thought opened a veritable Pandora's Box of naughty fantasies, and Rosaline's face darkened yet again as she herded the images off into a corner of her mind. No time for those sorts of ideas now, nor ever again – she and Snape were nothing more than colleagues, who had made a mistake. That was it, really. And she _certainly_ didn't want a repeat of last night. Oh no.

A stray thought crept back to the forefront of her consciousness.

_'Last night was merely the tip of the iceberg, Ros dear. Severus seems like a man who has a _large _number of…tricks up his…ahem. Sleeve.'_

"Bugger," she muttered, and knowing that something unpleasant now had to be done, walked into the castle.

~*~

There was a low buzz of conversation coming from beyond the bottom of the stairs leading down to the dungeons. Rosaline paused on a step when she heard this, and listened more intently. It didn't sound like a large number of people, but those that were present were all talking over each other, and heading this way. The young witch stood still, uncertain as to what she should do. If Snape was among that group, she wasn't sure she wanted to see him. Not like this. 

But it was too late now. The surprisingly small group appeared at the bottom of the stairs, too caught up in their task to notice Rosaline, who had just gone quite pale.

Between the three standing professors there was a familiar figure lying prostrate on a stretcher. Snape. The muscles of his face had gone slack, smoothing away lines and years, and his skin was whiter than she'd ever seen it. He was clearly unconscious. Or dead. 

The way one of his hands hung limply over the edge of the stretcher sent a needle of ice down Rosaline's spine. And his face, so young, so innocent and so almost-beautiful, reminded her of lines from a Muggle sonnet.

_'For I have sworn thee fair, and thought thee bright,_

_Who art as black as Hell, as dark as night.'_

An insane giggle threatened to choke her when she thought of the disdainful sneer she would be subjected to if she were to recite that line to Severus. But rather than poetry, there was a scream in her throat, held back only by the fear that if she opened her mouth she'd vomit.

McGonagall, hovering anxiously by Snape's side, looked up and started at seeing the immobile young woman half-way up the stairs.

"Rosaline," she called, her voice tinged with panic, "run and tell Poppy that we're bringing Severus to the Infirmary, it's an emergency."

Rosaline stood dumbly, still staring down as Hooch and McGonagall held the stretcher steady with their wands and levitated it up the stairs. Dumbledore, his face drawn with tension, walked at Severus' head, one of his hands resting lightly on the younger man's shoulder. Rosaline could almost convince herself that Dumbledore was giving the unconscious man strength, healing him, fixing him. Almost.

"For Merlin's sake, _go_ girl!" McGonagall cried, and Rosaline didn't hesitate this time. She took off at a run up the stairs and sprinted down the corridors, towards the Infirmary, as fast as she could. Her breath was hitching in her throat, her lungs were burning, and there was a dagger-sharp pain throbbing in her side by the time she got there.

She stumbled through the double doors and fiercely dug the heel of her hand into her abdomen, attempting to take her mind off the cramp by inflicting a different pain herself. Poppy Pomfrey looked out of her office at Rosaline in amazement.

"Severus. Unconscious. Mc…McGonagall's bringing him," the younger woman gasped, her breathing slow to return to normal. 

The mediwitch's eyes widened and she hurried to a bed, preparing it for an occupant, before turning back to Rosaline.

"Now, what's happened?" Pomfrey asked girl in the doorway.

She shook her head, feeling both helpless and useless at the same time, and swayed on suddenly uncertain feet. Pomfrey was at Rosaline's side in an instant, guiding her gently to a nearby bed. The young woman didn't put up any sort of struggle; she was shivering, and slipping back into that familiar black pit of despair.

She sat on the side of the bed and stared blankly at the doors, waiting for the others and their unhappy cargo. She didn't watch long. Low, anxious voices approached quickly, and the entrance to the Infirmary opened silently, seemingly of its own accord.

Poppy directed the trio (_'Quartet,'_ Rosaline reminded herself, _'he's not dead…yet.'_) over to herself, and then levitated Snape from the stretcher onto the bed.

Rosaline, watching the proceedings, tried not to wince at the way Severus' head lolled as though it were that of a broken puppet's. He did not move in the slightest as Madame Pomfrey ran her wand over his body once, twice, thrice. Her gently maternal face crumpled in confusion. 

"There doesn't seem to be anything physically wrong with him," she murmured to Dumbledore. The old wizard did not respond, but instead laid his hand on Snape's forehead. 

"He was collapsed in his private laboratory," came the soft response, "in front of a half-filled cauldron. There was shattered glass on the floor around him. It's clear he consumed something…and this is the effect."

Rosaline could not see the Headmaster's face from her vantage point, but she heard the pain in his voice. "I do not believe for a _second_ that this was the result of a botched potion. Severus is far too skilled to allow for a mistake of this nature. Which leaves only one other option…he intended this to happen."

Rosaline dug her fingernails into her palms and bit back a whimper. This was, quite obviously, her fault. And she had to tell Dumbledore.

"Headmaster," she said softly, not sure whether she would be audible at all. But she was, and the tall man turned, his face drawn and sad. 

"Yes, Rosaline?"

"I…" her infamous Gryffindor courage failed her again, as it had so often recently, "I'd like to look at the remaining portion of the potion you mentioned. I might be able to…" she trailed off, uncertain. Dumbledore nodded slowly, his blue eyes clouded.

"Yes, you may be able to determine what it is, and if there is an antidote for it."

Rosaline slipped off the bed and started for the door, but paused when she realised she had no idea where she was going. She turned back to the Headmaster. He nodded with understanding before she could say a word, and murmured an incantation under his breath.

"There will be signs to direct you to Severus' quarters, Rosaline. Good luck," he added softly, his tone bleak. 

Without another word the young witch headed towards the dungeons.

~*~

Despite her faith in the Headmaster, Rosaline was still a bit surprised when she reached the bottom of the staircase. Incandescent arrows shimmered on the floor in front of her, pointing off into the darkness. She stared down at the faint, silvery symbols for a moment, mentally blessed Dumbledore, and took off at a run into the blackness.

The twisting turns and sharp corners made her nervous, and more than once she glanced over her shoulder to make sure the arrows were still there. She had nothing to fear though – the soft glow that rose off the flagstones before her running feet did not disappear once she had passed. In fact, the signs reversed, pointing the way back towards sunlight and fresh air. Rosaline ran on, unsure of why she was in so desperate a hurry; Severus had seemed stable, not in death-throes. She ran anyways.

Finally, the arrows came to a stop before a large, familiar oak door. Catching her breath for a moment, she noted with grim satisfaction that it was open a sliver. She pushed lightly on the smooth wood, and it swung open.

The rooms were silent, and Rosaline felt a surge of irrational disappointment at the impeccable cleanliness before her. She had half expected to see a wild mess, the room torn to pieces, as it was the last time she had been here.

Chastising herself, she forced the thoughts from her mind and concentrated on the task at hand. There was a half-open door in the opposite wall, leading to a room she'd never entered before. She slipped inside.

It was his private workroom, small and very tidy, except for the scattered ingredients and half-full cauldron on one of the two tables. Rosaline stepped up to the clutter cautiously, broken glass crunching under her feet. She was half-afraid that at first glance she would be able to identify the potion as something quite poisonous. Her fears were unfounded – the liquid was something she had never seen before, dark green and luminous. Quite beautiful really.

She turned her attention to the jars and bottles that stood on the table. They seemed annoyingly familiar somehow, and she glanced at the labels.

Dog bile. Leeches. Grindylow liver. She frowned and looked again. The ingredients were those of a weak strength-sapping potion, with a few more potent components added to the mix. Ash leaves, phoenix tears, mandrake root…the pieces clicked into place, and Rosaline almost slammed her head against the wall as punishment for her own stupidity.

This was the potion she and Snape had been working on, which seemed to have gotten pushed aside over the past few days. Snape had perfected the basic recipe for the strength-destroying brew before she joined his efforts, increasing its potency 10-fold, or so he had told her. Rosaline had not questioned how he had tested it. They had developed theories on how to personalize it for Voldemort, and experimented accordingly. But their latest, frustratingly un-testable batch had been a pale blue colour. So what was this?

Rosaline glanced around the small lab helplessly, and then drifted back into the main room. She stood in the middle of the chamber and stared at the bookshelves, willing them to lead her to the solution. Her eyes rested on his desk, nestled in a corner, and in an instant she was upon it, rifling frantically through the piles of parchment.

"Pleasepleaseplease…" she chanted under her breath, pushing aside books. There was nothing. Rosaline ran back into the workroom and spun around, scanning the shelves and benches. There, in the corner, scattered carelessly. She moved over to the papers, and saw that familiar scrawl across the top of the first page: _'Enhanced Adficio Serum'_. She gathered the leaves of parchment together with gently shaking hand, a mixture of relief and fear. There were a number of dark reddish-brown circles on the top page. Rosaline tried not to over-analyze them.

She sat on a lab stool in front of the cauldron and skimmed the notes – there was nothing here she didn't already know, or hadn't contributed herself. But the top page…

Rosaline pulled that first folio free from its brothers and stared at it. The circles of blood (as that was what the stains clearly were) were small and unobtrusive – it looked as though the page had gotten lightly splashed somehow. She shuddered at that mental image. She looked up from the paper and let her gaze settle on the disordered workbench in front of her. She frowned.

_'Strange,'_ she thought, _'how the dark wood seems to shine in the light. I hadn't thought it was varnished.'_

She blinked and looked again. Slowly, she reached out and touched the surface of the table. 

The blood was not yet fully dry, and still tacky. When she lifted her fingertips again, they were stained dark red.

Rosaline stared dumbly at her hand for a moment, then looked back at the now-visible pool on the workbench. The almost-black wood had disguised it well. She leant to one side and peered under the table. She instantly found what she was looking for. A small and very bloody knife had apparently been dropped carelessly, and bounced under the bench and into shadow.

Rosaline dropped the notes onto the far, clean side of the bench and looked down into the cauldron. A faintly metallic smell rose off it. She had no need of tests to tell her what new ingredient Severus had added.

~*~

Rosaline re-entered the Infirmary and walked to where Poppy and Dumbledore hovered beside Snape's bed. If she were correct, he would still be unconscious.

_'Comatose, actually,'_ a small voice inside her head whispered.

"Poppy," she said softly, "were there any…marks on him?"

The mediwitch looked at her in surprise. "Yes, dear. A rather nasty gash on his forearm."

Rosaline cleared her throat and closed her eyes. "Did it…did it look as though he had gouged some…some _flesh_ out?"

Pomfrey's voice came through her self-induced blindness, sounding cautious and concerned.

"Yes…not very much, but an impressive wound to inflict on oneself nonetheless."

Rosaline nodded and opened her eyes, but not to meet the matron's questioning eyes. She merely looked down at Snape's very pale face. Bending over, she plucked up the edge of Severus' left sleeve. Dimly, she heard Pomfrey begin to speak – something about the wound being healed, and having been on the other arm anyways. Rosaline didn't listen; instead she pulled the loose black fabric up to the comatose man's elbow.

The mediwitch gasped and fell silent, and Dumbledore started back. The skin was smooth, pale and unmarked, a light dusting of black hair creeping around from the top of his forearm. Rosaline released the sleeve and trailed her fingers lightly over Severus' flesh, a bittersweet smile on her lips.

The Dark Mark was gone.


	10. Twilight

**_Disclaimer:_ I own nothing of JKR's, and am most certainly not making money from this little endeavor. The title is from the Vanessa Carlton song of the same name.**

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**_CHAPTER 9: TWILIGHT_**

Rosaline's mind worked with a maniacal speed as she stared down at the unconscious man, the faint smile fading.

_'The Dark Mark gone. Snape unconscious. Think, girl, think – the Mark connects Voldemort with his acolytes. A conduit for power, used to summon or punish or merely exert dominance. Thought to be one–way. But what if it wasn't? What if it could work -_both-_ ways?'_

Rosaline ran out of the infirmary, away from the stunned group who still gaped at Severus' forearm. The dungeons were dark and silent, but the arrows were still there. She barely noticed them as she ran, her train of thought speeding like a demon through her head.

_'He said Pettigrew wasn't a proper servant, that he was an opportunist, and he owes Potter his life. That's a Wizarding debt. How could he ever be He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named's (dammit, Voldemort, call him _**_Voldemort__) true servant with that hanging over him? Servitude is important for the magic because it's from his servants and followers that Voldemort draws power. Power through the Dark Mark, because it's a conduit.'_**

Rosaline dug the heel of her palm into her side, fighting back the pain of a cramp, and pushed the door of Snape's rooms open. She jogged into the workroom and sat down heavily on the stool, staring into the small cauldron. Her mind twisted and danced, random inspirations and thoughts joining the frenzy like leaves caught up in a storm.

_'Severus is different, but not the opposite of Pettigrew. He's a traitor, an enemy, but still bound to Voldemort. He still has (had) that connection. Maybe his betrayal, his subversion plays off Pettigrew's ineptitude and worthlessness as a servant. Servant gives power by giving something of himself. Traitor, albeit one still bound to the Master, takes power by giving something of himself…as a sacrifice.'_

She picked a small glass vial from the surface of the table, absent-mindedly wiping the drying blood off on her robes.

_'By adding a counterpart ingredient of his own flesh to this potion, it _could_ serve to emphasize the inadequacy of Pettigrew's flesh. It's far-fetched…but the Dark Mark is gone. The conduit, connection to Voldemort destroyed. But it still managed to harm Severus. He's comatose.'_

Rosaline blinked, and picked up the sheaf of research notes, rifling through them till she found the passage. She smiled grimly.

_'-_Only-_ comatose, and only because of the Dark Mark. __Should have remembered that – it won't affect anyone without the Mark. The  potion works only in combination with the catalyst ingredient, i.e.  Severus' tissue, and it only influences Voldemort's dark magic.'_

Her internal monologue paused as a new thought floated quietly to the surface.

_'Merlin…what would happen to Voldemort if he took it?'_

Rosaline looked back at the cauldron. The shimmering green fluid sitting so innocuously in the small cauldron was probably the best hope for the war effort.

~*~

The castle halls were dark and silent, a faint light from the sliver-moon stealing in through the windows, as Rosaline walked back into the infirmary, a vial of hope clutched in her hand. The remainder of the day had slipped away while she was busying herself in the dungeons. The rest of the potion had been carefully bottled and stoppered, and was sitting in a small cabinet in Snape's private laboratory. The cabinet had been doubly warded and locked, and the room itself was so charmed and alarmed it would be impossible for anything to get in. Perhaps she was being paranoid. But there was now no way to create more of the stuff – Severus was cut off from Voldemort now, and there was a definite shortage of Traitor-Death Eaters floating about. Living ones, at least.

He was free.

Rosaline stopped in the middle of the dark corridor. The knowledge that the Dark Mark was gone, and that Snape was no longer bound to the Dark Lord had not truly sunk in till that moment. She had been too busy, too engrossed in unraveling the mystery of the potion to think about it. The ramifications of Snape's liberation were huge and almost definitely unpredictable.

How would he react? Would he be pleased? Distraught? Indifferent? Angry?

Rosaline folded bonelessly to the floor and clutched the vial tighter, pressing her closed fist to her chest. She was terrified to even broach the issue, but the insistent and practical voice of reason refused to recoil from the possibility.

_What if he never wakes up at all?_

She shuddered, and bowed her head. Poppy was baffled. Dumbledore was terrifyingly powerless. There was no miracle cure to produce, no antidote. There was no happy ending waiting around the corner, no dawn to arrive after the darkest night. She was as sure of this as she was of her orphan-status.

Rosaline curled her free hand into a fist and dug her nails into her palm. She clenched her jaw and looked up definitely, staring blindly into the blackness before her. There was a voice in her head, screaming at her - now was the time to give up, and go home. Draw back from the rest of the world and retreat to the hermit-like existence she had been living before she returned to Hogwarts. Let everyone else fight the war, and leave her alone, with her work.

The easy way out. The coward's path.

"No."

Rosaline stood up again and spun around in the darkness, striking out madly, searching for invisible enemies – but they were all in her head. They whispered, and told her she was useless, a coward, a weak little girl who destroyed everything she touched.

They told her, chorusing and echoing in her mind, that she should go home. Run and hide away in the house of her dead parents. Forfeit the game. Give up. A cold, detached part of her mind stood back from the chaos and wondered at her sanity.

_'Not again, not now, this can't happen now.'_ Terrified memories surfaced, of drinking till she couldn't see, and was only aware of her own, accusing thoughts. She had walked along the edge for so long, and hadn't slipped.

She wouldn't slip now.

"No!" she screamed, and took off at a run towards the infirmary, eyes streaming with angry tears.

~*~

Rosaline leaned against the wall, taking deep breaths. She wiped her eyes and nose on the sleeve of her robe, hoping she looked presentable. She grimaced at the thought of walking in and having to face a group of her fellow staff members looking as though she'd been sobbing her eyes out.

Explaining why she'd cry so much over a prickly, cold man she'd only known for a few months was not something she ever wanted to deal with. That scared her almost as badly as someone guessing the true nature of her and Severus' relationship.

A hysterical giggle bubbled out of her throat.

_'Hell, if someone could figure us out, I'd sit them down and make them explain it to me.'_

She rubbed her eyes and straightened up, slipping back under the familiar mask. She pushed the Infirmary door open and walked through.

It was dark; Rosaline squinted into the shadows, unable to see any movement. She walked towards the Severus' bed, her hand tight around the vial. It was only when she was too close to slip away that she saw Dumbledore sitting beside the bed, watching the younger wizard. He looked up at her and smiled, gesturing for her to come closer.

Rosaline wordlessly obeyed, feeling more than a little unsure of herself. Dumbledore looked back at Snape and temporarily spared her the awkwardness of having to try and explain what she had discovered. The silence of the Infirmary was too strong now, and she couldn't bring herself to disturb the tableau before her. They both watched the unconscious man for long minutes, till finally, the Headmaster sighed, a deep and tragic sound that caused Rosaline to start.

"Poppy is at a loss," he said quietly. 

Rosaline nodded, even though he couldn't see the gesture. She waited to see if Dumbledore would say anything else, but when the silence stretched out to the point of being uncomfortable, she cleared her throat.

"I think I know what happened."

Dumbledore turned back to her, and waited. Rosaline coughed nervously, then took a step closer, choosing to look at Snape rather than face the piercing eyes of the old wizard.

"The potion we'd been working on…he must have had a breakthrough last night…it…we based it on the idea that He-Who…-_Voldemort's-_ rebirth spell was faulty. Because of Wormtail. He's not a proper servant, just an opportunist, and weak, and we were trying to exploit that, and Se…Snape must have added some of himself, to mirror the flesh-of-the-servant aspect of the spell. But it would have the opposite effect. And it only put him in a coma because he had the Dark Mark, but that's also the only way it could be tested."

Rosaline knew she was rambling, but looking at Snape's slack face, she felt herself growing more desperate.

"I locked and warded the cabinets after I bottled all of the potion, because we can't make anymore, unless there are other traitor-Death Eaters, because Severus doesn't have the Dark Mark anymore, and if it could do this to him, just because he has the Mark, what could it do to Voldemort?"

The words tumbled from her lips like water, falling faster and faster.

"But I don't know…there's no cure, I can't see -_any bloody way-_ to fix him, and no one knows, and he may never wake up, and – "

"Rosaline."

The flood abated, and she looked up at Dumbledore. He had a hand on her shoulder, and she was trying to remember if he had to shake her to get her to stop. He looked so sad and full of compassion; she felt her throat close up.

_'He knows.'_

"Rosaline," Dumbledore's tone was gentler now, and he steered her towards the chair. She sat down heavily, and stared blankly at the floor, ashamed and angry at her near-loss of self-control.

"I think you would make a more appropriate sentinel for Severus, tonight. Besides," he said, a faintly amused tone creeping into his voice, "I think he would be far more pleased to wake up to your face than mine."

Rosaline blushed, and continued to stare at the floor. She waited till the rustle of Dumbledore's robes had faded before she inched her chair closed to Snape's bed. She stared at him, wondering if he was dreaming, or if, as some people claim, he was aware she was there with him, despite being unconscious.

_'Would he even want me to be here?'_

Rosaline wrapped her arms around herself and rocked back and forth in the chair, staring at Snape, willing him to open his eyes, to speak, if only to tell her to bugger off. Anything was better than this – this waxen, slack face, this barely moving chest, this corpse-like figure.

"I bottled it for you," she whispered, surprised at the sound of her own voice.

"It's warded, and in the cabinet opposite the door in your work room. I'll tell you the passwords and charms when you wake up. You can see for yourself then. I cast more wards on your rooms as well. I don't know yours, and I didn't think you'd want the door to be left open like that."

Rosaline stopped, unsure of what else to say. She took a deep breath and looked away from his face, concentrating on his hands instead.

"You did it. You figured it out. We can beat them now, and kill him for good. But he must know something's wrong already. He would have felt it through the mark. He must have. Maybe you've already destroyed some of his power. Maybe…maybe it'll scare him, get him on the run."

She knew she was babbling, and probably being far too hopeful, but it seemed necessary. What if he could hear her? Could she really speculate that his being comatose was in vain?

"You did it. If you hadn't…if we…" she trailed off, and hugged herself tighter.

"I'm sorry, Severus," she whispered, "but I was scared. Scared that this would happen. But it has anyways, and it still hurts. Only more so, because…but maybe, maybe it had to happen. If I hadn't pushed you away, if I hadn't been…you know…then maybe you never would have tried what you did. But you did, and now we have a weapon."

"We have a weapon," she repeated in a softer voice, reassuring herself.

She shivered, and dragged her eyes back to Snape's face. Half afraid he'd be the same, half hopeful his eyes would be open.

There was no change, and Rosaline whimpered softly, looking back at his hands lying on the white bed sheets. She uncurled an arm from around her body and reached for him. Her fingers hovered over his for a moment. She let them drop, and was surprised at the warmth of his skin. With growing confidence, she lightly traced her fingertips over the back of his hand, brushing over the fine black hairs, memorizing the courses his veins ran.

It was easy to forget that Snape was utterly oblivious to her touch, easy to imagine that time had rewound, and they were back in her bedroom, not the Infirmary. Easy to pretend that he was only asleep.

Rosaline clenched her jaw. No more lying to herself – no pretending. If he remained comatose, it was very likely she'd have to take over his teaching position. Not something she relished, but where else would Dumbledore find a skilled Potions' Master on such short notice? The prospect of being thrown into a classroom with a horde of rowdy teenagers terrified her, but there was nothing else to be done. She ran both hands through her hair and rested her elbows on her thighs. It was going to be a long night.

~*~

Rosaline blinked, and raised her head. She looked around blearily, half-blinded by the early morning sunlight pouring in through the window and reflecting off the antiseptic-white Infirmary bed sheets. She sat up with a shock, ashamed she'd fallen asleep.

She rubbed her eyes and glanced at Snape's impassive, unconscious face. Had she really expected a change? Of course not, but hope is a persistent creature, and very difficult to subdue. Rosaline remembered hope, bitterly, but it was foreign to her now, and it hurt. She closed her eyes tightly and pressed her fingers hard against her eyelids, rubbing till explosions of light appeared and left patterns across her vision. She needed coffee, and a hot shower.

She looked back at Snape.

_'It's not as though he's going to go anywhere,'_ she thought.

She pushed herself off the chair and walked out of the Infirmary. It was early, and there was no one in the corridors. Even the ghosts seemed to be absent. The August sun was altogether too bright and pleasant, she decided. Once in her rooms, Rosaline closed all the curtains, wishing for a moment that she lived in the dungeons before immediately regretting that thought. It led to any number of painful what-if's. 

She dragged herself up the metal stairs and headed straight into the bathroom, opening the hot water tap on the bathtub to full, ignoring all the sickeningly-sweet perfumed faucets. She wanted scalding water and nothing else right now. 

As the tub filled noisily Rosaline walked back into her bedroom, stripping as she did so. A trail of discarded clothing marked a path from the washroom door to the bed. She collapsed face-first onto her bed, briefly blessing the charms on the tub that turned the water off when it was in danger of over-flowing onto the floor.

She let her eyes close, but before she could even worry about falling asleep in this rather uncomfortable and prone position, she inhaled deeply, preparing for a sigh. Snape's own personal scent, a mix of common potions' ingredients, sex and something far more familiar, assaulted her nose. Rosaline was on her feet in an instant.

She stared at the bed, and felt herself begin to shiver uncontrollably. On unsteady legs, she teetered into the bathroom and climbed into the bath. The water _was_ scalding, and she yelped. But the shivering wasn't abating, and she delicately lowered herself into the steaming water.

Rosaline pulled her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around her shins. As the faucet turned itself off, she quietly began to cry.

~*~

She pulled her hair into a knot at the nape of her neck, and stared at her reflection in the mirror. Any signs of tears had been meticulously scrubbed away. The somber, pale woman staring back at her looked, if not happy, controlled.

Rosaline took a deep breath, and with slow, steady steps, walked down the metal staircase, through her library and sitting room, out of her quarters and down the tower. She strode through the quiet hallways, chin up, eyes forward. Her mother had always said that there was no point in crying over spilt milk. As much as the analogy had bothered her when she was younger (and her mother was still alive) she embraced it now. 

It didn't offer much help though, when she stopped in front of the grimacing gargoyle that guarded Dumbledore's office. Rosaline stood awkwardly in the hall, at a loss. It was something of a surprise when the gargoyle suddenly slid aside to reveal the deceptively-motionless staircase. Rosaline hesitated for a moment before stepping into the small foyer and onto a stair. She wrung her hands together, worrying the sleeves of her robe as she was whisked up to the Headmaster office.

What was she going to say? He had clearly been expecting her. Rosaline didn't know whether to be relieved or dismayed at that thought, and as she plucked at a loose thread she wondered if it would be possible to run back down the stairs without falling and breaking her neck. She didn't get the chance to test her hypothesis; the stairs deposited her neatly in front of the office door a moment later. She knocked lightly, and pulled herself up straighter when the door swung open.

Dumbledore was sitting at his desk, hands clasped in front of him. 

"Ah, Rosaline. Please, have a seat." 

He watched her over the top of his glasses as she sank into the chair facing the desk.

"Tea?"

She shook her head and smiled faintly. "No, thank you. I'm not very thirsty."

Dumbledore nodded, and sat back. Rosaline dropped his gaze almost immediately, and began picking at her sleeve again. She could feel her face growing warm; a mixture of nervousness and shame causing her to blush. 

She took a deep breath, and clenched her hands together to stop them fidgeting.

"I would like to offer to teach Potions at Hogwarts until Professor Snape wakes…gets better. It's so close to the start of the term, and you won't be able to find anyone else, and I am a qualified Potions' Mistress."

_'…and it's my fault Severus is unconscious.'_

Rosaline bit her lip, and ignored the mentally added-motive.

The Headmaster nodded and steepled his fingers. "You are quite correct. We have very few options at the moment, and your generous offer will save a great deal of difficulty. However." 

He paused, and seemed to become, in Rosaline's eyes, sombre and sad.

"However, I do not want you to take this responsibility upon yourself out of guilt."

Her breath caught in her throat.

_'He knows!' her mind screamed._

"It is not your fault that Severus chose to use the elixir on himself, Rosaline. You could not have dissuaded him from that course of action once he had made up his mind, which is the most plausible reason that he did not share his final findings with you. I'm sure you've discovered how stubborn he can be when he chooses. Please, don't blame yourself child."

Slowly, her heart started beating again.

_'He doesn't know. He doesn't know.'_

"But if you are certain, and you are prepared to do this, I and all the other staff will help and guide you as much as we can. Teaching children is not easy, not by any stretch of the imagination, but it can be quite rewarding. Perhaps it may help you."

Dumbledore smiled gently, and Rosaline found herself returning the expression.

"Yes, Headmaster, I am certain. I'm willing to do this, and it's not because of any guilt."

She smiled through the lie, if only because inside her head, a voice kept repeating that he didn't know.

~*~

Long, orange strips of sunlight severed the Infirmary into chunks. Rosaline walked across the swathes of shadow and light and was reminded of the few times she'd been in a west-facing compartment on a Muggle train at this late time of day – when the train passed tall trees, or those odd poles Muggles put everywhere, sunlight and shadows would flit across her vision. And when you closed your eyes, you could still feel the change on your skin, and see it through your eyelids.

Severus had been moved to a private room at the far end of the Infirmary, where he could be cared for away from the constant flow of injured and ill students. Rosaline murmured the password and slipped in.

The curtains on the tall window had been left open, and a band of sunlight lay across the bed. There had been no change for the past few days, and it didn't seem very likely that there would be any improvement soon. Most of the other staff had reached this sad conclusion early on, but Rosaline still held onto a small, persistent sliver of hope. 

She had only allowed herself a few minutes a day to see Snape – she had been frantically organizing and familiarizing herself with all the syllabi for the Potions classes. It was fortunate that Snape had prepared them before everything happened, otherwise she would have been entirely lost.

But it was all material she knew, and was comfortable with. Nervous as she was, Rosaline knew that it could be far worse. She could be teaching History of Magic.

And it wasn't for ever. Snape would wake up, maybe not right away, but soon. And then…who knows. But it didn't matter if he hated her, and wanted nothing to do with her ever again. Because he would be alright – alive and awake.

She sat down in the chair beside the bed, directly in the sunlight. But Severus' head was above the line of shadow, and even when squinting she could barely make out his features. She sighed, and after wrapping her hand around his, she closed her eyes and sat back.

His skin was smooth and dry, and the room smelled of lemon balm and rosemary.

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**_A/N:_** Well, that took an obnoxiously long time, and of course, I finished just as fanfiction.net changed their policy on NC-17 fics. Argh.

I'd like to apologize at how long this took – I was very busy over the summer, and though I have been working on FiLT on and off, I just didn't seem to be able to find enough willpower to finish it. I'm back at university now, and I realised that I was -_so- bloody close to finishing it all…so I did!_

This is the end of FiLT:II. Ya, kinda artsy and obnoxious, but I rather like it. It's…peaceful, and after everything that's happened to her, Rosaline deserves a little peace. I make no promises about when I'll begin FiLT:III, but I think I will actually try and plan out the entire plot before I begin writing (not doing so was my mistake for the first 2).

Again, thank you to everyone who has reviewed and all of you who've given me lovely, helpful feedback. If any of you are still actually checking the wretched thing, I hope you enjoyed it ;)

Cheers,

Dahlia


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